’Way down in Egypt land,
Tell ole Pharaoh,
To let my people go.”
Husky, mournful, melodious voice. Tapping foot. Rolling eye.
Silence.
“What kind of a coon song do you call that?” inquired the gray derby.
“Why, it’s a Negro melody—they sing them in the South.”
“Sounds like a church hymn to me.” He paused. His pale shrewd eyes searched her face. “You a nigger?”
The unaccustomed red surged into Magnolia’s cheeks, dyed her forehead, her throat, painfully. “No, I’m not a—nigger.”
“Well, you cer’nly sing like one. Voice and—I don’t know—way you sing. Ain’t that right, Jo?”