"You mean," Old Dudley murmured, "he's gonna live next door to you?"
She shrugged. "I suppose he is. And you tend to your own business," she added, "Don't have anything to do with him."
That's just the way she'd said it. Like he didn't have any sense at all. But he'd told her off then. He'd stated his say and she what he meant. "You ain't been raised that way!" he'd said thundery-like. "You ain't been raised to live tight with niggers that think they're just as good as you, and you think I'd go messin' around with one er that kind! If you think I want anything to do with them, you're crazy." He had had to slow dawn then because his throat was tightening. She'd stood stiff up and said they lived where they could afford to live and made the best of it. Preaching to him! Then she'd walked stiff off without a word more. That was her. Trying to be holy with her shoulders curved around and her neck in the air. Like he was a fool. He knew yankees let niggers in their front doors and let them set on their sofas but he didn't know his own daughter that was raised proper would stay next door to them--and then think he didn't have no more sense than to want to mix with them. Him!
He got up and took a paper off another chair. He might as well appear to be reading when she came
