“Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks— men’s boots. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. It depresses one, you know. I should have known at a glance if it was. ” His eyes were burning. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. “You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set.
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