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He was a handsome man, and Lucy could see the strong resemblance of John to him. But she was relentless. And we won’t make it so. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. They all stay!” “And you yourself?” Brendon laughed. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. ‘I don’t want no gold! Not for serving my mistress.
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