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She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. . . ’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. Now I’ll tell you what I propose.
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