She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. And their monasteries and convents are still not officially permitted to exist here. 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 could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. It’s time she knew.
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