’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. Challenge accepted. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. You should have known better, you cannot die, so your body and your instinct will 213 take over as your mind departs.
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