Evasive (and but half-awake), he warned her. “Let me alone; Ah’m thinkin’.”
“Prancing Nigger, now come on!”
“Ah’m thinkin’.”
“Tell me what for dis procrastination?” Exasperated, she gripped his arm.
But for all reply, Mr. Mouth drew a volume of revival hymns towards him, and turned on his wife his back.
“You ought to shame o’ you-self, sh’o,” she caustically commented, crossing to the window.
The wafted odours of the cotton-trees without, oppressed the air. In the deepening twilight, the rising moonmist, already obscured the street.
“Dis place not healthy. Dat damp! Should my daughters go off into a decline ...” she apprehensively murmured, as her husband started softly to sing.
“For ebber wid de Lord!
Amen; so let it be;