It hit her just above the knee. 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. Here we are. She held her hand to the place where he had slapped her. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. "Come Bess,—no whimpering. I’m fine. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. Imbecile. And empty.
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