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Dorothy B. Hughes

Dorothy B. Hughes Books

Crime writer

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“The intuitive knowledge of each other which had been evident in the first meeting of Ellen and Skye seemed heightened as they worked together. It didn’t come from the words they spoke, the meaningless light phrases, it simply was there. It set Hugh silent, apart. If they noticed they would believe it was the weight of tonight’s near thing. Not the jealousy which he grudgingly admitted. Not the self-pity he was fighting with every atom of his pride.”

“He didn't pay any attention to anything but the white-and-silver girl down in front. She belonged here; she was like something holy, like one of the altar candles, like an angel. He didn't pay any attention to the altar. There were priests up there chanting the litany; their white-and-gold benediction vestments draped over the red velvet chairs. There was a choir of seminarians singing. Singing the responses. Their faces were foreign like the town; brown Mexican faces, somber, and their voices, unaccompanied were like a heaven choir. He didn't care about that. He hadn't come here to pray; he'd come with a gun to keep his eye on a rat. He wasn't going to be sucked in by holiness.”

“He wondered if the Judge had mentioned that Hugh was a N*****, or if when you reached Judge Hamilton’s position such subtleties wouldn’t occur to you. And he wondered if Ellen had this latent fear when meeting someone new. With her background, it wouldn’t seem to be something she had to face, yet how could she escape it entirely? The quickening in the eyes, the certain intonation of the voice, the unspoken awareness: you are black. Even if you were brown or beige or lightly sun-tanned.”