“You know what I can do to you if you open your trap?”
Crooks stared hopelessly at her, and then he sat down on his bunk and drew into himself.
She closed on him. “You know what I could do?” Crooks seemed to grow smaller, and he pressed himself against the wall.
“Yes, ma’am.” “Well, you keep your place then, Nigger.
I could get you strung up on a tree so easy it ain’t even funny.”
Crooks had reduced himself to nothing. There was no personality, no ego—nothing to arouse either like or dislike.
He said, “Yes, ma’am,” and his voice was toneless.
For a moment she stood over him as though waiting for him to move so that she could whip at him again;
but Crooks sat perfectly still, his eyes averted, everything that might be hurt drawn in.
She turned at last to the other two. Old Candy was watching her, fascinated.
“If you was to do that, we’d tell,” he said quietly.
“We’d tell about you framin’ Crooks.” “Tell an’ be damned,” she cried.
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