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 room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt.
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