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. Gerald grinned. “You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me. Forthwith he presented his card. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. I’m not Gerald, remember.
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