Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. 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. He was plainly attired in a riding-dress and boots of the period, and wore a hanger by his side. She was recalling the circumstances under which she had engaged herself to Manning, and trying to understand a curious development of the quality of this relationship.
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