All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so. 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. “How old are you?” “Sixteen. Wood, the carpenter, who formerly resided here, is still living?" "If you feel any anxiety on his account, Sir, I'm happy to be able to relieve it," answered Kneebone, readily. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. “My sister is sure to be out.
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