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. " Sir Rowland moved irresolutely towards the door, but recoiled before a sad spectacle. Her heartbeat quickened. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip.
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