“Just look that through, will you. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. But she was staring seaward and did not notice the offering.
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