The river spoke to Ab every evening at dusk, though nobody else could hear what it said. Silas had always assumed his uncle was mad — half the Harrow family was, in various degrees — but as he stoo...
The Harrow plantation had once been worth three hundred thousand dollars. Cotton bales filled the warehouse every autumn, wagons lined up for days to transport them to Memphis, and Judge Worthington himself had come to the house to propose insurance for the harvest. Silas was six years old at the time, sitting on his father's knee, watching the cotton gin grind its endless grey rhythm. Now the...
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