"Quick. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. Wood,—Winifred fainted in the arms of a female attendant,—and Wood standing beside them almost in a state of distraction. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. ‘Not kill me, I mean. She rolled to one side. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. Spurlock bent his head to the rail. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her.
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