The man examined the woman. A boiled potato stood on his fork. The brightness of his heavy-jowled face came out, as his lips curled.
“I can understand why you’re against race-suicide. It’s your livin’.”
Mrs. Cripper dropped her knife in protest. The rattling unleashed a repressed impulse in the man. A great fist fell on the flimsy table. “As for me—I’m sick and tired of the whole thing! I’m—” he changed his mood and added, “I’m a joke, I am!” And, as if with relentless logic, his face wreathed in a smile that was actually merry.
Mrs. Cripper did not understand. She observed that Josiah was smiling. She did not like that. So she spoke to Sylvia:
“Did you look in and see if Adelaide and Thomas was all right?”
“They’re asleep—” said the young girl.
“And Mama too?”
“Guess so.”
Once more came the more comfortable silence.
This was the household into which Quincy was born.