“Henry nodded. “May I ask you a question?”“Certainly, Your Grace.”He pointed at Jack. “Is he the Artful Dodger?”Mr. Dickens bent low. “I write fiction, Your Grace. The characters inmy books do not really exist, but if they did”—he winked—“I do believehe would be the Artful Dodger.”“I knew it!”“And do you see that gentleman over there?”“Lord Claybourne?”Dickens nodded. “He would be Oliver.”“And what about Miss Frannie?”“She is every sweet girl who appears in the story.”

“His grace to overlook my silliness in thinking that I knew what to do and bless me with what He knew was best anyway. He promised that His grace was sufficient, that His grace would be enough...”

“So what is your middle name?""O. That's my middle initial.""Hmmm. It's probably something hideous like Orville, that would be so funny...Oh...it's not really...Orville. Is it?"He nods."Nooooooo!"He nods again."I'm so sorry. I can't believe that. It's not hideous...but really? Why would your mama do that to you? I mean-" I give up because now he's wiping his eyes and it really is too funny.”

“Could I be your girl, too?" I asked quickly.The large, broad-shouldered man looked away before he answered. "Well, now," he said, as though he had given it deep thought, "I sure do think I would like that.""But," I said, concerned that he hadn't noticed, "I don't look like your other girls.""You mean because you white?"I nodded. "Abinia," he said, pointing toward the chickens, "you look at those birds. Some of them be brown, some of them be white and black. Do you think when they little chicks, those mamas and papas care about that?”

“Rose. Listen to me. Run. Run as fast and as hard as you can back to your dorm. Tell the guardians."I nodded. There was no questioning here.Reaching out, he gripped my upper arm, gaze locked on me to make sure I understood his next words. "Do not stop," he said. "No matter what you hear, no matter what you see, do not stop. Not until you've warned the others. Don't stop unless you're directly confronted. Do you understand?"I nodded again. He released his hold."Tell them buria."I nodded again."Run.”

“Do you know how to read?' 'No. It is one of the black arts.' He nodded. 'But a useful one,' he said.”