Oh, oh, apologies.
What?
Oh, I was simply excusing myself. I’m not normally this out of sorts.
It’s a funeral. People cry at funerals.
Ah, amen. Those are wise words for a person of your complexion. But then I’ve noticed your people are often more in touch with your spiritual side and emotional side.
My people?
[Oraetta snorts cocaine]
The Negro. It’s a Baptist fervor, I’d wager, what causes them to hoot and tumble to the floor, aflush with the Holy Spirit.
Miss Mayflower, I see you’ve met my daughter, Ethelrida.
Your daughter?
The one and only. Ethelrida, this is Miss Mayflower. She’s a nurse at St. Bartholomew.
[A confused Oraetta looks at the white Thurman and dark-skinned Oraetta]
Oh yeah. Huh! Yes, now I see it. This child is certainly the product of miscegentation.
Uh, if by that you mean she’s the spitting image of her father, then I take that as a compliment.
Your mother must be quite dark-skinned. As I’ve noticed in my study of the human animal, that in the combination of races, it is de rigueur for the more extreme coloration to prevail.
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