"She's a fine-looking young lady," said Paul D. "Fine-looking.
Got her daddy's sweet face.""You know my father?""Knew him. Knew him well.""Did he, Ma'am?" Denver fought an urge to realign her affection.
"Of course he knew your daddy. I told you, he's from Sweet Home."
Denver sat down on the bottom step. There was nowhere else gracefully to go. They were atwosome, saying "Your daddy" and "Sweet Home" in a way that made it clear both belongedtothem and not to her. That her own father's absence was not hers. Once the absence had belonged toGrandma Baby — a son, deeply mourned because he was the one who had boughther out of there. Then it was her mother's absent husband. Now it was this hazelnut stranger's absent friend. Onlythose who knew him ("knew him well") could claim his absencefor themselves. Just as only thosewho lived in Sweet Home could remember it, whisper it and glance sideways at one another whilethey did. Again she wished for the baby ghost —its anger thrilling her now where it used to wearher out. Wear her out.
"We have a ghost in here," she said, and it worked. They were not a twosome anymore. Hermother left off swinging her feet and being girlish. Memory of Sweet Home droppedaway fromthe eyes of the man she was being girlish for. He looked quickly up the lightning-white stairsbehind her.
"So I hear," he said. "But sad, your mama said. Not evil.""No sir," said Denver, "not evil. But not sad either.""What then?""Rebuked. Lonely and rebuked.""Is that right?"Paul D turned to Sethe.