Sanctuary: The Corrected Text
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Spolit, feckless Temple Drake, the daughter of a judge, runs away from school with an unsuitable man. Abandoned by him with a gang of moonshiners, Temple falls into the clutches of the psychotic Popeye, one of the most grotesque characters of Faulkner's imagination. A compelling, shocking tale of perverted justice in the Deep South, "Sanctuary" is also a moving plea for courage in the darkest of circumstances.
view, the stick rattling lightly along the rank of empty stalls. Temple crouched against the door, clutching her coat about her. She could hear him back there in one of the stalls. She opened the door and peered out, at the house in the bright May sunshine, the sabbath peace, and she thought about the girls and men leaving the dormitories in their new Spring clothes, strolling along the shaded streets toward the cool, unhurried sound of bells. She lifted her foot and examined the soiled sole of
you in whitefolks’ jail! Nigger, whar you gwine to? Whar you gwine to, nigger?” Each morning Isom fetched in a bottle of milk, which Horace delivered to the woman at the hotel, for the child. On Sunday afternoon he went out to his sister’s. He left the woman sitting on the cot in Goodwin’s cell, the child on her lap. Heretofore it had lain in that drugged apathy, its eyelids closed to thin crescents, but today it moved now and then in frail, galvanic jerks, whimpering. Horace went up to Miss
even coal, carefully, at some length. He raised his hand and drew it across the back of his neck. “You recall speaking to me about a girl.” “Yes. Then what?” “That’s for you to say.” He could smell the honeysuckle as it bore up the silver slope, and he heard the whippoorwill, liquid, plaintful, reiterant. “You mean, you know where she is?” Snopes said nothing. “And that for a price you’ll tell?” Snopes said nothing. Horace shut his hands and put them in his pockets, shut against his flanks.
“Good-night. Are you having a good time?” “Yes. Yes. I’ll write tomorrow. Didn’t Mamma get my letter today?” “I dont know. I just—” “Maybe I forgot to mail it. I wont forget tomorrow, though. I’ll write tomorrow. Was that all you wanted?” “Yes. Just wanted to tell you.……” He put the receiver back; he heard the wire die. The light from his wife’s room fell across the hall. “Lock the back door,” she said. 31 While on his way to Pensacola to visit his mother, Popeye was arrested in
of soft black rubber. “I’m asking you,” Popeye said. “What’s that in your pocket?” The other man’s coat was still across his arm. He lifted his other hand toward the coat, out of one pocket of which protruded a crushed felt hat, from the other a book. “Which pocket?” he said. “Dont show me,” Popeye said. “Tell me.” The other man stopped his hand. “It’s a book.” “What book?” Popeye said. “Just a book. The kind that people read. Some people do.” “Do you read books?” Popeye said. The other