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. Sheppard. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation. Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. Winter came: rainy, damp, and savage. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard.
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