"But I thought we had our welcome yesterday?" Oh, that was just me being a busybody. This is from everyone." She leaned in, as if to get as much of her body through the doorway as possible. Amelia opened the door wider and let her pass. They sat in what Amelia thought of as the living room (but what Philip and Penelope would probably have called the parlor). Other than the wall of unpacked boxes, the only things visible were Amelia's old sofa and the ancient stone (not brick, but whole stones) fireplace. Ms. Price looked the room over as if she were planning on moving in herself (which Amelia supposed she very well might be), leaning as far as she could to peer down hallways and up staircases visible through open doors. They talked about nothing at all before Amelia finally came to what was her mind."Ms. Price, what was the name of that family who built this house?" You mean the Devereuxs?" That's right, but do you remember any of their first names? Or anything about them?" It's hard. She couldn't understand however what was so bad though about the British yoke that Enoch found cause to complain. Taxes on tea. Restrictions of the freedom of movement and the right to bear arms. The rule of a tyrannical King from as far from the United States as they were from Africa. All this seemed abstract compared to the very real injuries she and the other slaves endured on the ship, as they were shackled together, with rats running freely around and on top of her, as the ship lurched and swayed over the ocean waves as it carried her towards what she was now persuaded to believe was the land of free men and free speech. Every horror she could imagine was magnified, as other people on the ship died in the hold, including her parents, and she felt continuously ill and wretched and miserable. She was constantly sea-sick. She caught a fever, which thankfully waned before she might be diagnosed as too sick to carry to the ship's destination and she would be cast into the sea alive.
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