Gianfrancesco stumbled belatedly onto the beach, his feet padding wet sand. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. 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. Already she had sent him twenty pounds, and never written to explain to him why it was she had not sent it back sharply directly he returned it.
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