Nella Larsen

The Wrong Man

“I’m beginning to believe,” she murmured, “that no one is ever completely happy, or free, or safe.”

Pain, fear, and grief were things that left their mark on people. Even love, that exquisite torturing emotion, left its subtle traces on the countenance.

with a woman whose life had so definitely and deliberately diverged from hers

But you’ve never answered my question. Tell me, honestly, haven’t you ever thought of ‘passing’?”

Absurd! Impossible! White people were so stupid about such things for all that they usually asserted that they were able to tell; and by the most ridiculous means: fingernails, palms of hands, shapes of ears, teeth, and other equally silly rot. They always took her for an Italian, a Spaniard, a Mexican, or a Gypsy. N

Margery was born for fear that she might be dark. Thank goodness, she turned out all right.

Irene didn’t like changes, particularly changes that affected the smooth routine of her household.

Looking at the woman before her, Irene Redfield had a sudden inexplicable onrush of affectionate feeling. Reaching out, she grasped Clare’s two hands in her own and cried with something like awe in her voice: “Dear God! But aren’t you lovely, Clare!”

Irene Redfield wished, for the first time in her life that she had not been born a Negro.