"You're thinkin' that you're—that you're free, now, darlin'—free—ain't you?"
"'Sh-h-h-h!"
"Free, darlin'—think—there ain't nothin' can hold you! A hundred dollars' benefit-money and—"
"Gawd, Cottie—Cottie—'sh-h-h! Him layin' in there dead! It—it ain't no time to talk about that now. Anyways, you're the one to go. I'll stay with maw."
Her words tumbled, and her tones were galvanized with fear and fear's offspring, superstition. She glanced toward the half-open door with eyes two shades too dark.
"No, no, Della; you're the oldest. You go first, and I—I'll stick it out with maw till—she's gettin' feebler every day, Delia, and I'll be joinin' you some day not far off."
"'Sh-h-h; it ain't right. I—I'll give her—half the benefit-money, Cottie, but it's a sin to—"
"You and folks make me sick. If the devil hisself was to die you'd snivel and bury him in priest's robes. What John was he was—dyin' didn't change it. Ten days ago you were standin' at this very window answering his signal and hating him with every swing of the lantern."
"Cottie, you mustn't!"
"I used to see you sit across from him at the table, and when he yelled at you or wanted to pet you I've seen you run your finger-nails into you palms from hatin' him, clear in till they bled, like you used to do when you was a kid and hated any one, and now, just because he's dead—"