He gave it. "Tom thinks you hate him and he won't force himself on your generosity."
"Oh!" She seemed to be considering that.
"Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Hate him."
She felt a flush burning beneath the dusky brown of her cheeks. "If you knew what he'd done to me—"
"Perhaps I do," he said, very gently.
Her dark eyes studied him intently. "He told you?"
"No, one hears gossip. He hates himself because of it. Tom's white,
Jessie."
"And I'm Indian. Of course that does make a difference. If he'd had a white girl whipped, you couldn't defend him," she flamed.