She drew a breath, and sighed it out. She was a much lighter and more frivolous person, very charming and companionable—but with a difference—a great difference. 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 imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. ’ Roding gave him a look of respect. Both, perhaps?’ At that, her eyes darkened with fury. You didn’t even put the twelve words.
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