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. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. ” Anna glanced towards her sister, but the latter avoided her eyes. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection.
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