"Don't yer listen ter him, my baby! Money is what folks respect an' you go on an' git all er ol' Bob Taylor's money."
Aunt Peachy bitterly resented the fact that the people of her own race, even her own blood, had failed in their allegiance to her, who had been queen for a hundred years. Rolfe Bolling was the one person over whom she held undisputed sway, and more than ever did she rule him with a rod of iron. When a third person was present she made a show of respect for him, but when they were alone he might in truth have been her baby, so much did she treat him like one.
The old negress spent her nights in weaving weird spells, making strange-looking figures of putty, tying up bits of bone and hair in filthy rags, which next day she concealed about the house under carpets or mattresses, behind pictures, in Elizabeth's work basket, even in Philip's pockets when she could get to them without being caught. The remarkable thing about Aunt Peachy was that she believed in her own powers of magic, and Rolfe Bolling believed in them, too. He was afraid of his old nurse. His feeling for her was divided between hate and love. He had loved her until lately and now
