The robbers proceeded singly, and kept on the grass skirting the road, so that no noise was made by their horses' feet. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. 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. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. I have the right also to throw you out. You did not learn that in a convent.
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