“The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. “We are clerks in the same bank. The chamber, into which he stole, like all carpenters' workshops, was crowded with the implements and materials of that ancient and honourable art. “I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked.
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