“Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?”

“Why should I blame her that she filled my daysWith misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire?What could have made her peaceful with a mindThat nobleness made simple as a fire,With beauty like a tightened bow, a kindThat is not natural in an age like thisBeing high and solitary and most stern?Why, what could she have done, being what she is?Was there another Troy for her to burn?”

“What could she have done? She was a heroine, and with that came certain obligations.”

“She realized with deep respect that this woman had always done what she had to do and faced what she had to face. If many of her fears and burdens would have seemed unreal to another woman, there was nothing unreal about her courage.”

“How was it that he haunted her imagination so persistently? What could it be? Why did she care for what he thought, in spite of all her pride in spite of herself? She believed that she could have borne the sense of Almighty displeasure, because He knew all, and could read her penitence, and hear her cries for help in time to come. But Mr.Thornton-why did she tremble, and hide her face in the pillow? What strong feeling had overtaking her at last?”

“Lash had been explaining to her that it's impolite to refer to an African American as a nigga, unless one was another African American, when Troy Lee came in and said, "She only speaks Cantonese.""She does not. She keeps coming in and saying 'What's up my nigga?'""Oh yeah. She does that to me, too. Did you give her a pound?""No. I didn't give her a pound, motherfucker. She called me a nigga.""Well, she's not going to quit unless you give her a pound. It's just the way she rolls.""That's some bullshit, Troy.""It's her couch.”