I’m very close to finally getting my associate’s degree. In the meantime, I’m getting trained as a corrections officer at the Corrections Office... Training Academy down in the town of Boston. Life is good. When I lived in Haiti, I married my high school sweetheart, a tall and beautiful black woman named Janet. We raised a son together, Bernard Florestal. Shortly before I came to America, Janet was killed by some people during a riot at the nation’s capital, Port-Au-Prince. I can’t tell you how. Even her mother, who served in the Priest's household as cook and scullery maid, could not remember who of the many passing stable boys and draymen might have sired the girl fourteen years ago. Obviously the God, of whom the master of this house piously claimed to be an humble servant, possessed a cynical humour to place a child so rare in beauty and disposition so slightly above the class of the basest born. Little in life was hers to have or hold or claim, except one small thing: she was. More

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