“Well, I want to be a writer,” I mumbled, unsure of myself; I had not planned to tell her that, but she had made me feel so utterly wrong and of no account that I needed to bolster myself. “A what?” she demanded. “A writer,” I mumbled. “For what?” “To write stories,” I mumbled defensively. “You’ll never be a writer,” she said. “Who on earth put such ideas into your nigger head?” “Nobody,” I said. “I didn’t think anybody ever would,” she declared indignantly. As I walked around her house to the street, I knew that I would not go back. The woman had assaulted my ego; she had assumed that she
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