Cross Creek by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

The black girl came on foot the four miles from the village. She was barefooted. She strode up the path to the back door, thick- legged, her big toes splayed in the sand. She stopped short and glared at me, as though she meant to strike me. She wore one garment, too short for her erect height. It was of muslin flour sacking, so tattered that the full length of one sweating thigh showed through its multiple rents. She was the dusty black of teakwood. Two short tufts of hair were braided over her temples. They were stiff, a trifle curved, like horns.

She said fiercely, "I hear tell you want a girl. You take me." She seemed impossible. She looked capable of murder. It would be like having a black leopard loose in the house.