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. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance.
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