I looked up just as a fairly plain maid dressed in the style of 1905 or so, curtseyed at the door, then minced into the room and stopped before Martha, again curtseying deeply.
“It’s about time, Miss Hana!” Ma snapped. “I have a good mind to give you a sound birching on that fat ass of yours!”
“But, Miss Martha,” the maid objected softly, curtseying, “I do not have a fat ass!”
“Are you arguing with me, girl?” Ma demanded.
Again, the deep curtsey. “Oh, no, Ma’am! I would never dare do that!”
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