CHAPTER 11I stood up. As Mr. Abbott and I faced each other, I sensed what I now know—that if I were colored and had stolen a hen I wouldn’t want Mr. Abbott looking at me like that. Being white and having stolen no hen, I still didn’t like it. He had the frostiest grey eyes I’ve ever seen, and the shrewdest. His lips made a thin wide line dropping at the corners under a long intelligent nose, the tip of which moved a little disconcertingly when he spoke. He had a long upper lip too, and a tiny brown stain of tobacco juice at one corner of his mouth. I had the feeling, even before he spoke to me, that he had sized me up as shallow, vain, unreliable and a Northerner…all of which was no doubt true, but one likes at least to have a chance to disprove it.
“They tell me you’re an old friend of M
