\" She replied to him, looking into his blue eyes. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. Honestly, I never did. 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 a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway.
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