“The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. “I hope you’re satisfied. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. People running, screaming, hiding. "Then, the story of his death was false. What they do with him afterward is off my ticket, no concern of James Boyle; they can lock him up or let him go. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. “I couldn’t help it.
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