“I know it, sir, and it’s a lot, too! Matty told me about it one night along with ’er ghost stories, sir.... Ever heard Matty’s ghost stories, sir?”
“No, but I didn’t bring you here to talk about Matty. And tell me, what makes you say ‘sir’ to me all the time?”
His impatient tone, his sharp, rasping voice, didn’t change Virginia’s respectful attitude. She only bent her head a trifle and replied:
“Anybody must always say ‘sir’ to another body when she’s kind of half afraid of him, sir.”
She was composed for a moment, then went on:
“It isn’t every day your father comes home, sir, and I’ve waited a long, long time. I’d be a hell of a kid if I couldn’t muster up a ‘sir’ for you.”
Singleton glanced sidewise at his young daughter, bending his brows together in a frown.
“You’re a queer sort of a girl, but I suppose it’s to be expected when you’ve only lived with niggers.... Now will you remember something if I tell it to you?”
“Yes, sir,” breathed Virginia, drawing back a little from his strong emotion.
“Well, this! Don’t ever say ‘sir’ to any human being 18 living! Don’t ever! Do you understand me? What I mean is, when you say ‘sir,’ it’s as if you were—as if you were a servant or afraid—you make yourself menial. Can you remember, child?”