I never had one happy hour.

Can you imagine a whole childhood passed without one happy hour ?" "Hardly," I said.
With white, nervous fingers she fastened the gold chain round her neck again.
"Not one happy hour," she said.

"I was left under the care of my grandmother, a proud, cold, cruel woman, who never said a kind word to me, and who grudged me every slice of bread and butter I ate." She looked at me, still holding the golden locket in her white fingers.
"If I had been like other girls," she said "if I had parents to love me, brothers and sisters, friends or relatives, I should have been different.

Believe me, Mr.Ford, there are white slaves in England whose slavery is worse than that of an African child.

I was one of them.