Rama turned around just as her companion entered the vestibule. What was her name? Abigail? They’d barely spoken since Abigail had met Rama at the train station. Of course, Rama hadn’t given her a chance to tell her anything. She’d been too busy worrying about Mano.
“I invited the driver to join us this evening, but he prefers to socialize at the saloon.” Abigail shook her head. “Mrs. Ramabai, has something upset you? You look pale.”
Rama gestured towards the auditorium. “I’d no idea the church was this size. I can’t speak to such a large group.”
Abigail looked slightly offended. “I’m sure you can. This is Tremont Street Baptist Church. The Anti-Slavery Movement was practically born here. All the great orators speak here. Charles Dickens read his Christmas Carol here. I heard him myself.”
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