"Like master like man," observed Jack as he rolled the inanimate body to the side of the road. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart. 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.
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