THE INHERITED GARDENER [1895]
Where can I run? What can I do? The scent
of her still lingers where she passed me in the garden. What are magnolias to the fresh scent
of her presence? Her skin, soft and delicate, shames the lily that grows by the mill. And her hair - her hair, though black like my own, is
rich and all gisteny, like the raven in the meadow. Her laugh is innocent, as a child's laughter, and as she speaks I melt inside. So sweet. So pure.
Dear God - Where do I run? What do I do?
She is white, and they would kill me if I speak.
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