She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. “Because I hate you!” She spat. That she was provoked by his interference was obvious. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. “I have just ordered a carriage for her. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel.
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