When her husband returned home, she immediately entered a list of
complaints against me as long as the moral law, including my failure
to wash her clothes properly, and her inability to break my head for
it; the last indictment seemed to be the heaviest she could bring
against me. I was in the shadow of the doorway as the woman raved,
while Mr. Mitchell listened patiently until the end of his wife's
grievances reached an appeal to him to whip me with the strength that
a man alone could possess.

Then he declared, "Martha, this thing of cutting up and slashing
servants is something I know nothing about, and positively will not
do. I don't believe in slavery, anyhow; it is a curse on this land,
and I wish we were well rid of it."

"Mr. Mitchell, I will not have that saucy baggage around this house,
for if she finds you won't whip her, there will be no living with her,
so you shall just sell her, and I insist upon it."

"Well, Martha," he answered, "I found the girl with you when we were
married, and as you claim her as yours, I shall not interpose any
objections to the disposal of what you choose to call your property,
in any manner you see fit, and I will make arrangements for selling
her at once."

I distinctly overheard all that was said, and was just as determined
not to be sold as I was not to be whipped. My mother's lawyer had told
her to caution me never to go out of the city, if, at any time, the
white people wanted me to go, so I was quite settled as to my course,
in case Mr. Mitchell undertook to sell me.