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“The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. I was stupid—stupid and impulsive beyond measure to burst upon you in this way. But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. The lantern was on the ground inside, ready. Through the gloom he distinctly perceived the dome of St. Turning, she flew for the nearest door. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand.
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