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. He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. ” She could practically hear the self-deprecating thoughts racing across his mind, the failed hours of rehearsed lines. ” “I wish you would use my Christian name,” he said. Day before, send round to each to borrow a shirt. I have a new cult to teach, a new enthusiasm. And I have no more the pistol.
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