Explore "Passing" by Nella Larsen on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
One three centuries removed / From the scenes his fathers loved, / Spicy grove, cinnamon tree, / What is Africa to me? / - Countée Cullen
It was the last letter in Irene Redfield's little pile of morning mail. After her other ordinary and clearly directed letters the long envelope of thin Italian paper with its almost illegible scrawl seemed out of place and alien. And there was, too, something mysterious and slightly furtive about it. A thin sly thing which bore no return address to betray the sender. Not that she hadn't immediately known who its sender was. Some two years ago she had one very like it in outward appearance. Furtive, but yet in some peculiar, determined way a little flaunting. Purple ink. Foreign paper of extraordinary size.