His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. “I wonder!” said Miss Stanley. ‘Ah, the tragedy. You're a queer lad. 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. ‘I don’t want him having an apoplexy in this house. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. . .
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