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. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. My birth certificate was destroyed when the county building it was housed in burned down.
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