Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes. Men usually do. I will dedicate my books to you.
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