“The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. And there was another matter. She let Jack go as he passed through the opening. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. He became a little more personal and intimate. Smith. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home.
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