’ *** Martha sniffed dolefully, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with a large square of damp linen. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. She was unusually pale, and her eyes were brilliant. Besides, she will do no such thing. You care for me a little, I know. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War.
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