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She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. The imbecile. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. Ah! she looks this way, and puts her finger to her lips. \" \"Nah, he's probably a cool guy, seems laid back enough. ” “Try what?” She asked, coolly assessing his lithe hips. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel.
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