” He said. . She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. "You're mistaken, Winny.
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