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"Why, this is your writing Dolly, and addressed to Mr. Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. No other white people within twenty miles.
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