“If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. It hadn’t even been called Kentucky back then when the Shawnee still hunted deer over mossy hills and the smoke from their fires could still inspire terror. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard.
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