“It was perhaps my fault. So she built a shrine. She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. Worse than any man. ’ ‘Now why didn’t I make that connection?’ Gerald asked of the air in a tone of regret.
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