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’ ‘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. “I should like you to come here,” she said. They are their mother’s sons. The softly glittering summer stars! She saw them shining over mountains of snow, over valleys of haze and warm darkness. I have been very foolish, but it is over. “Indeed, no,” he answered. She was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement.
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