Sheppard, who witnessed this occurrence with dismay, looked timorously at Wood, in expectation of some hint being given as to the course she had better pursue; but, receiving none, for the carpenter was too much agitated to attend to her, she ventured to express a fear that she was intruding. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad.
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