"Iss, Massa. Manning?” said her aunt. Bring me clothing, I beg of you. Softly she rose to her feet. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. But a far greater affliction was in store for her. "I must tell you," she was saying. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. .
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