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 squalid semicircle of Niggertown. Here and there from a tumbledown chimney a feather of pale wood smoke lifted into the chill sunshine. The sight of the houses brought Peter a sharp realization that his life would end in the curving street beneath him. A shock at the incomprehensible brevity of his life rushed over him. Just to that street, just as far as the curve, and his legs were swinging along, carrying him forward at an even gait.

All at once he began talking, arguing. He tried to speak at an ordinary tempo, but his words kept edging on faster and faster:

“Tump, I'm not going to marry Cissie Dildine.”

“I knows you ain't, Peter.”

“I mean, if you let me alone, I didn't mean to.”

“I ain't goin' to let you alone.”

“Tump, we had already decided not to marry.”

After a short pause Tump said in a slightly different tone:

“'Pears lak you don' haf to ma'y her—comin' to yo' room.”

A queer sinking came over the mulatto. “Listen, Tump, I—we—in my room—we simply talked, that's all. She came to tell me she was goin away. I—I didn't harm her, Tump.” Peter swallowed. He despaired of being believed.

But his defense only infuriated the soldier. He suddenly broke into violent profanity.

“Hot damn you! shut yo black mouf! Whut I keer