"Why, I thought they owned slaves up to the end, General."

"Slaves? What have slaves got to do with it? Ain't the abolitionists and
the woman suffragists and the rest of those damned fire-eating Yankees
all the same? What they want to do is to overturn the Constitution, and
it makes no difference to 'em whether they overturn it under one name or
the other. I tell you, Ben, as sure's my name's George Bolingbroke,
Matoaca Bland couldn't have told me to the day of her death whether she
was an abolitionist or a woman's suffragist. When a woman goes cracked
like that, all she wants is to be a fire-eater, and I doubt if she ever
knows what she is eating it about. Women ain't like men, my boy, there
isn't an ounce of moderation to the whole sex, sir. Why, look at the way
they're always getting their hearts broken or their heads cracked. They
can't feel an emotion or think an idea that something inside of 'em
doesn't begin to split. Now, did you ever hear of a man getting his
heart broken or his brain cracked?"

The canker was still there, doing its bitter work. For forty years Miss
Matoaca had had her revenge, and even in the grave her ghost would not
lie quiet and let him rest. In his watery little eyes and his
protruding, childish lip, I read the story of fruitless excesses and of
vain retaliations.

When I reached home, I found Sally in her upstairs sitting-room with
Jessy, who was trying on an elaborate ball gown of white lace. Since the
two years of mourning were over, the little sister had come to stay with
us, and Sally was filled with generous plans for the girl's pleasure.
Jessy, herself, received it all with her reserved, indifferent manner,
turning her beautiful profile upon us with an expression of saintly
serenity. It amused me sometimes to wonder what was behind the brilliant
red and white of her complexion--what thoughts? what desires? what
impulses? She went so placidly on her way, gaining what she wanted,
executing what she planned, accepting what was offered to her, that
there were moments when I felt tempted to arouse her by a burst of
anger--to discover if a single natural instinct survived the shining
polish of her exterior. Sally had worked a miracle in her manner, her
speech, her dress; and yet in all that time I had never seen the ripple
of an impulse cross the exquisite vacancy of her face. Did she feel? Did
she think? Did she care? I demanded. Once or twice I had spoken of
President, trying to exc