Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Men had tried that before, but never until now had they been quick enough. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. “I don’t suppose you’ll be able to do it much,” said Ann Veronica.
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