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. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. There was a maiden aunt who lived in the North who might let her live there for a few weeks until she disappeared. Then he paused. " Spurlock wondered if something hadn't suddenly gone awry in his head. Sir Rowland then fell. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. take it slow. I cannot have my wife distressed or worried.
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