Such was the simple code that displayed itself in all his thoughts. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. But men of the Spurlock type, who walk straight, who are unobtrusive and intensely pale, they break swiftly and inexplicably. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery.
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