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. "Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. "Rowland," said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, "you have assured me that I shall behold my son. . . She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. How many ends had he? Well, she must cease to trouble herself for this imbecile, whom it would give her very much pleasure to shoot. She admired his backside as he fetched a blue towel from his bathroom. My mother, I'm sure, didn't intend to hurt your feelings.
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