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Schreiner, Olive, 1855-1920

"The Story of an African Farm, a novel"


"You are not going to leave her really, Ayah, are you?" she said. "The
maids say so; but I'm sure you wouldn't do such a thing."
The Mozambiquer grinned.
"Husband says I must go home."
"But she hasn't got any one else, and won't have any one else. Come, now,"
said the landlady, "I've no time to be sitting always in a sickroom, not if
I was paid anything for it."
The Mozambiquer only showed her white teeth good-naturedly for answer, and
went out, and the landlady followed her.
Gregory, glad to be alone, watched the sunshine as it came over the
fuchsias in the window, and ran up and down on the panelled door in the
corner. The Mozambiquer had closed it loosely behind her, and presently
something touched it inside. It moved a little, then it was still, then
moved again; then through the gap a small nose appeared, and a yellow ear
overlapping one eye; then the whole head obtruded, placed itself critically
on one side, wrinkled its nose disapprovingly at Gregory, and withdrew.
Through the half-open door came a faint scent of vinegar, and the room was
dark and still.
Presently the landlady came back.
"Left the door open," she said, bustling to shut it; "but a darky will be a
darky, and never carries a head on its shoulders like other folks. Not
ill, I hope sir?" she said, looking at Gregory when she had shut the
bedroom door.


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