“The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. It was impulsive and natural. I've already told you I'm about to take a long journey, and it's more than probable I shall never return. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. I must tell somebody—and you would understand. “Don’t!” she begged. Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. ’ ‘Ah yes.
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