George. Forbid it?
Zoe. There is a gulf between us, as wide as your love, as deep as my despair; but, O, tell me, say you will pity me! that you will not throw me from you like a poisoned thing!
George. Zoe, explain yourself—your language fills me with shapeless fears.
Zoe. And what shall I say? I—my mother was—no, no—not her! Why should I refer the blame to her? George, do you see that hand you hold? look at these fingers; do you see the nails are of a bluish tinge?
George. Yes, near the quick there is a faint blue mark.
Zoe. Look in my eyes; is not the same color in the white?
George. It is their beauty.
Zoe. Could you see the roots of my hair you would see the same dark, fatal mark. Do you know what that is?
George. No.
Zoe. That is the ineffaceable curse of Cain. Of the blood that feeds my heart, one drop in eight is black—bright red as the rest may be, that one drop poisons all the flood; those seven bright drops give me love like yours—hope like yours—ambition like yours—Life hung with passions like dew-drops on the morning flowers; but the one black drop gives me despair, for I'm an unclean thing—forbidden by the laws—I'm an Octoroon!