Her mother had died when she was a wee girl, too young to remember her. So long indeed that she had almost forgotten the other names. For years and years she had been called Mag. But that was ever so long ago centuries ago the thirteen-year-old girl thought. Once, when she was a little bit of a girl, and went to a free kindergarten for a few weeks, the sweet-faced teacher called her Maggie. I think her mother used that name when she first looked at her. There was a time in her life when she was called Margaret. The subject of all these calls that needed instant attention was a girl of thirteen, Mag Jessup, little maid of all work in the boardinghouse of Mrs. Perkins, can Mag run to the corner for some lemons right away? Norah is waiting for them. I want Mag to come and clear out my closet-shelf so I can put those boxes in as soon as possible. Mag, just take a stitch in this glove for me in about a second that is all the time I have to spare. Mag, I want the sitting-room dusted and put in order immediately it is nearly time for Mr. Tell Mag to run with this letter to the post-box, right away.
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