Rachel: I understand, Ma dear. (A silence. Suddenly) Ma dear, I am beginning to see—to understand—so much. (Slowly and thoughtfully) Ten years ago, all things being equal, Jimmy might have been—George? Isn’t that so?
Mrs. Loving: Why—yes, if I understand you.
Rachel: I guess that doesn’t sound very clear. It’s only getting clear to me, little by little. Do you mind my thinking out loud to you?
Mrs. Loving: No, chickabiddy.
Rachel: If Jimmy went South now—and grew up—he might be—a George?
Mrs. Loving: Yes.
Rachel: Then, the South is full of tens, hundreds, thousands of little boys, who, one day may be—and some of them with certainty—Georges?
Mrs. Loving: Yes, Rachel.
Rachel: And the little babies, the dear, little, helpless babies, being born today—now—and those who will be, tomorrow, and all the tomorrows to come—have that sooner or later to look forward to? They will laugh and play and sing and be happy and grow up, perhaps, and be ambitious—just for that?
Mrs. Loving: Yes, Rachel.