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Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe
page 142 of 695 (20%)
ironing-cloth; a coarse but clean shirt or two, fresh from the iron,
hung on the back of a chair by the fire, and Aunt Chloe had another
spread out before her on the table. Carefully she rubbed and ironed
every fold and every hem, with the most scrupulous exactness, every now
and then raising her hand to her face to wipe off the tears that were
coursing down her cheeks.

Tom sat by, with his Testament open on his knee, and his head leaning
upon his hand;--but neither spoke. It was yet early, and the children
lay all asleep together in their little rude trundle-bed.

Tom, who had, to the full, the gentle, domestic heart, which woe for
them! has been a peculiar characteristic of his unhappy race, got up and
walked silently to look at his children.

"It's the last time," he said.

Aunt Chloe did not answer, only rubbed away over and over on the coarse
shirt, already as smooth as hands could make it; and finally setting her
iron suddenly down with a despairing plunge, she sat down to the table,
and "lifted up her voice and wept."

"S'pose we must be resigned; but oh Lord! how ken I? If I know'd
anything whar you 's goin', or how they'd sarve you! Missis says she'll
try and 'deem ye, in a year or two; but Lor! nobody never comes up that
goes down thar! They kills 'em! I've hearn 'em tell how dey works 'em up
on dem ar plantations."

"There'll be the same God there, Chloe, that there is here."

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