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"
In
the
name
of
God
!
"
blustered
Gerald
.
"
Why
should
those
white
trash
take
you
away
just
at
your
supper
hour
and
just
when
I
'm
wanting
to
tell
you
about
the
war
talk
that
's
going
on
in
Atlanta
!
Go
,
Mrs.
O'Hara
.
You
'd
not
rest
easy
on
your
pillow
the
night
if
there
was
trouble
abroad
and
you
not
there
to
help
.
"
"
She
doan
never
git
no
res
'
on
her
piller
fer
hoppin
'
up
at
night
time
nursin
'
niggers
an
po
'
w
'
ite
trash
dat
could
ten
'
to
deyseff
,
"
grumbled
Mammy
in
a
monotone
as
she
went
down
the
stairs
toward
the
carriage
which
was
waiting
in
the
side
drive
.
"
Take
my
place
at
the
table
,
dear
,
"
said
Ellen
,
patting
Scarlett
's
cheek
softly
with
a
mittened
hand
.
In
spite
of
her
choked-back
tears
,
Scarlett
thrilled
to
the
never-failing
magic
of
her
mother
's
touch
,
to
the
faint
fragrance
of
lemon
verbena
sachet
that
came
from
her
rustling
silk
dress
.
To
Scarlett
,
there
was
something
breath-taking
about
Ellen
O'Hara
,
a
miracle
that
lived
in
the
house
with
her
and
awed
her
and
charmed
and
soothed
her
.
Gerald
helped
his
wife
into
the
carriage
and
gave
orders
to
the
coachman
to
drive
carefully
.
Toby
,
who
had
handled
Gerald
's
horses
for
twenty
years
,
pushed
out
his
lips
in
mute
indignation
at
being
told
how
to
conduct
his
own
business
.
Driving
off
,
with
Mammy
beside
him
,
each
was
a
perfect
picture
of
pouting
African
disapproval
.
"
If
I
did
n't
do
so
much
for
those
trashy
Slatterys
that
they
'd
have
to
pay
money
for
elsewhere
,
"
fumed
Gerald
,
"
they
'd
be
willing
to
sell
me
their
miserable
few
acres
of
swamp
bottom
,
and
the
County
would
be
well
rid
of
them
.
"
Then
,
brightening
,
in
anticipation
of
one
of
his
practical
jokes
:
"
Come
daughter
,
let
's
go
tell
Pork
that
instead
of
buying
Dilcey
,
I
've
sold
him
to
John
Wilkes
.
"
He
tossed
the
reins
of
his
horse
to
a
small
pickaninny
standing
near
and
started
up
the
steps
.
He
had
already
forgotten
Scarlett
's
heartbreak
and
his
mind
was
only
on
plaguing
his
valet
.
Scarlett
slowly
climbed
the
steps
after
him
,
her
feet
leaden
.
She
thought
that
,
after
all
,
a
mating
between
herself
and
Ashley
could
be
no
queerer
than
that
of
her
father
and
Ellen
Robillard
O'Hara
.
As
always
,
she
wondered
how
her
loud
,
insensitive
father
had
managed
to
marry
a
woman
like
her
mother
,
for
never
were
two
people
further
apart
in
birth
,
breeding
and
habits
of
mind
.
Ellen
O'Hara
was
thirty-two
years
old
,
and
,
according
to
the
standards
of
her
day
,
she
was
a
middle-aged
woman
,
one
who
had
borne
six
children
and
buried
three
.
She
was
a
tall
woman
,
standing
a
head
higher
than
her
fiery
little
husband
,
but
she
moved
with
such
quiet
grace
in
her
swaying
hoops
that
the
height
attracted
no
attention
to
itself
.
Her
neck
,
rising
from
the
black
taffeta
sheath
of
her
basque
,
was
creamy-skinned
,
rounded
and
slender
,
and
it
seemed
always
tilted
slightly
backward
by
the
weight
of
her
luxuriant
hair
in
its
net
at
the
back
of
her
head
.
From
her
French
mother
,
whose
parents
had
fled
Haiti
in
the
Revolution
of
1791
,
had
come
her
slanting
dark
eyes
,
shadowed
by
inky
lashes
,
and
her
black
hair
;
and
from
her
father
,
a
soldier
of
Napoleon
,
she
had
her
long
straight
nose
and
her
square-cut
jaw
that
was
softened
by
the
gentle
curving
of
her
cheeks
.
But
only
from
life
could
Ellen
's
face
have
acquired
its
look
of
pride
that
had
no
haughtiness
,
its
graciousness
,
its
melancholy
and
its
utter
lack
of
humor
.
She
would
have
been
a
strikingly
beautiful
woman
had
there
been
any
glow
in
her
eyes
,
any
responsive
warmth
in
her
smile
or
any
spontaneity
in
her
voice
that
fell
with
gentle
melody
on
the
ears
of
her
family
and
her
servants
.
She
spoke
in
the
soft
slurring
voice
of
the
coastal
Georgian
,
liquid
of
vowels
,
kind
to
consonants
and
with
the
barest
trace
of
French
accent
.
It
was
a
voice
never
raised
in
command
to
a
servant
or
reproof
to
a
child
but
a
voice
that
was
obeyed
instantly
at
Tara
,
where
her
husband
's
blustering
and
roaring
were
quietly
disregarded
.
