. ’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. ‘He just came. . ” The sensation produced was gratifying enough.
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