"Darry is a servant,
and accustomed to a servant's place. What hurt you so much,
did not hurt him a bit. He knows where he belongs."
"You don't," — said I.
"What?"
"Know anything about it." I remember I spoke very feebly. I
had hardly energy left to speak at all. My words must have
come with a curious contrast between the meaning and the
manner.
"Know anything, about what, Daisy? You are as oracular and as
immoveable as one of Egypt's monuments; only they are very
hard, and — you are very soft, my dear little Daisy! — and
they are very brown, according to all I have heard, and you
are as white as a wind-flower. One can almost see through you.
What is it I don't know anything about?"
"I am so tired, Preston!"
"Yes, but what is it I don't know anything about?"
"Darry's place — and yours," I said.
"His place and mine! His place is a servant's, I take it,
belonging to Rudolf Randolph, of Magnolia. I am the unworthy
representative of an old Southern family, and a gentleman.
What have you to say about that?"
"He is a servant of the Lord of lords," I said; "and his
Master loves him.
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