Native Son by Richard Wright:
The milk on the stove boiled over. Bessie rose, her lips still twisted with sobs, and turned off the electric switch. She poured out a glass of milk and brought it to him. He sipped it, slowly, then set the glass aside and leaned over again. They were silent. Bessie gave him the glass once more and he drank I down, then another glass. He stood up, his legs and entire body feeling heavy and sleepy.
“Get your clothes on. And get them blankets and quilts. We got to get out of here.”