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’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. She let go of him and stood up, straightening herself. “Goodnight. They are long gone. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. ” She sat very still. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight.
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