’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that. Businesswomen in pointy-toed shoes swooned coyly in his direction, tipping their noses over their glossy magazines to admire 273 him. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes. Mr.
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