“No man can realize,” she said, “what that pit can be. A white man takes his life in his hands. “It’s the warming up of the year, the coming of the light mornings, the way in which everything begins to run about and begin new things. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. Wood—and after him came his daughter. But I’m thinking as how I’d best report to the major over this here shooting. I don’t have to take this shit.
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