’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. I love you—unendurably.
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