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had bought in consequence of Mrs. Roxie Biggers's defamation of her beds.

The thought flickered through Abner's mind that Mrs. Roxie had produced both these results: the smell inside, the suspended animation outside; odour and silence; maximal and minimal sequences of the visit of that dictatorial old woman to the Scovell House to see Tug Beavers

This momentary glimpse of life in the round so foreign to the hill type vanished swiftly from Abner's mind, leaving him occupied with that never-ending stream of petty defensive and offensive thoughts which form the intellectual staple of his class.

He wondered if some future grand jury would really indict the whole of Irontown. Would it put the whole village in jail? Where would the grand jury come from?

This brought him squarely against the question of mob violence and communal lawlessness, but Abner, like millions of others Americans, could make no further step in his thinking. His questions stood out like figures against a fog and produced only a sense of grotesqueness, mystery, and danger.

As for himself, he would march with the other and take his share like a man. He felt in his pockets to reassure himself that mask and pistol were there, walked past his room to glance in at the clock, and continued his noiseless marching up and down.

At the end of the hall opposite his own room a door stood open, and as he passed it he saw to his surprise Nessie Sutton kneeling beside her bed, apparently in prayer.

Abner stopped short, staring at the girl, wondering what she was doing in her room at that time of the day. A suspicion that she meant to join the lynching party shot through his head and was instantly rejected.

The girl must have heard Abner pause in his soft pacing, for she looked around. Her face was white and frightened. After a mute interrogation in her wide eyes she began in a low voice, "Are you—" then broke off and moved her