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r right hand was entirely useless--dead, as she aptly called it. One finger had been cut off by a doctor, and the auctioneer stated that she herself chopped off the other finger — her forefinger — because it hurt her, and she thought that to cut it off would cure it. This remark raised a laugh among the crowd.
I looked at her, and expected to see a stupid-looking creature, low browed and sensual in appearance; but was surprised, instead, to see a woman with an eye which reminded me of Margaret Gardiner (whom I visited in Cincinnati), but more resolute, intelligent and impulsive.
She was perfectly black; but her eye was Saxon, if by Saxon we mean a hell-defying courage, which neither death nor the devil can terrify.
It was an eye that will never die in a slave's socket, or never die a natural death in so unworthy an abode.
Did n't you cut your finger off, asked a man, kase you was mad?
She looked at him quietly, but with a glance of contempt, and said:
No, you see it was a