“What are you doing?” “Nothing. ’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. Activity in the hall intensified. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. We had not then recovered from the shock. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire.
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