She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. ’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. Something in his tone pinched her heart.
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