The candle burned low between them, casting long shadows across the room where Plato's Republic lay open on the small wooden table.
Theron Boone turned a page with fingers that had spent the day signing plantation documents—cotton counts, livestock inventories, the names of men and women and children who belonged to his father and now, in Theron's reluctant inheritance, belonged to him. "Read it again," Theron said. Samuel leaned forward in the candlelight. He was twenty-two, one of the three children Theron had been...
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