For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating. 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. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. I slaved over it, contacted half a dozen genealogy groups and came up with zilch. Like the Castle, which it resembled in all respects except that it was destitute even of a barrack-bedstead, the Red Room was reserved for state-prisoners, and had not been occupied since the year 1716, when the jail, as has before been mentioned, was crowded by the Preston rebels. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt.
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