“Henry White was white and happy. For a long time there was nothing more to say about him. All around him were people with unhappinesses worth talking about, but Henry was contented, and therefore a kind of blank. Nobody knew what to make of him. He had been white and happy since the day he was born. However, he did not think of himself as white, because white was the color of people who didn’t think it was important to think about their color, because they were just people; color was for other people to think about, people who weren’t just people. Happy was Henry’s nature, the nature of a
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