Shari proceeded to paint, brush, dust, slather, and blot Lucy’s face with makeup. 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. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. I’ve made no one happy. He nodded silently, too full for words.
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