Something congenital and sleeping subcutaneously beneath the surface of
her had scratched through. She was herself, strangely italicized.
A judge regarded her not unkindly. There were two of him, she would keep
thinking, one merging slightly into his prototype.
She stood, gazing up. Around her swam the court-room--rows of faces;
comings and goings within her railed area. And heat--the dizzying, the
exciting heat--and the desire to shake off the some one at her elbow.
That some one was up before her now, in a chair beside the judge, and
his voice was as far away as Archie Sensenbrenner's.
"And she says to me, she says, your Honor, 'Got a girl?'"
"Were those her exact words to you?"
"Yes, your Honor."
"Proceed."
"And I says to her, I says, 'No,' and then she comes up close and says
to me, she says, 'Buy me a drink?'"
"Were those her exact words?"
"Yes, your Honor, as near as I can remember."
"Go on."
"And I says to her, 'Where do you want to go?' and she says to me,
giving me a wink, 'Cora's.'"
"Cora's?"
"Yes, your Honor; the Cora Jones mulatto woman that was cleaned out last
week."
"She suggested that you accompany her to the house of the Jones woman?"
"Beg pardon, your Honor?"
"She suggested this resort?"
"Yes, your Honor.
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