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. Thunder rumbled behind the manicured hills. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune. At other times he seemed to have regained the normal completely. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. Casting a hasty glance at the old and ruinous prison belonging to the liberty of the Bishop of Winchester (whose palace formerly adjoined the river), called the Clink, which gave its name to the street, along which he walked: and noticing, with some uneasiness, the melancholy manner in which the wind whistled through its barred casements, the carpenter followed his companion down an opening to the right, and presently arrived at the water-side.
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