She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. Seizing her hand he covered it with kisses. . 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. That's the only fault I know of. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return.
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