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. "Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up. He not only did this, but supplied him with an ointment which allayed the swelling of his limbs, and crowned all by furnishing him with a jug of excellent ale. There was one letter. ‘It is of no use to try to stop me. This was irregular. I take the life out of men. “Yes?” he said. Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following—Sunday. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot.
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