"What is it, Marta?" Mrs. Livingston was asking the maid. "I don't know," the maid answered. "I thought I heard something." There was a small glow in the room from the dimmed lights. The women were standing there by the bedroom door, looking in at Henrietta on her fourposter bed, covered in a sheer, lace canopy. The nineteen-year-old had her eyes closed, her quilt up to her neck.
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