It's part of people's character that they would try to make some sense of it. It always seemed to me that Greensboro was a reflective community.

I feared for my life; it was a life-or-death situation. In some ways, I've never really gotten it out of my mind.

I knew at that instant it was going to be bad news.

I heard screams and gunfire. I smelled gunpowder and I heard the groans of people dying.

Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy: she was too inferior to excite feeling. Pardon the seeming paradox; I mean what I say. She was very showy, but she was not genuine; she had a fine person, many brilliant attainments, but her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature; nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil; no unforced natural fruit delighted by its freshness. She was not good; she was not original; she used to repeat sounding phrases from books; she never offered, nor had, an opinion of her own. She advocated a high tone of sentiment, but she did not know the sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were not in her

I'm a character actor.