“Ugh!” she said. 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. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. Lives by his wits and gambling. " "Wait a bit, massa," replied the grinning negro,—"lilly bit—see all right fust. I’m turning into a big fat cow. ” He frowned heavily. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind.
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