The third room is filled with my wizard mad scientist husband's electronic hub bub of messy experiments.
Did my crazy husband's experiments keep you up all night?
Martha rolled her eyes, beginning to share her husband's opinion of our little trial.
Her pink shorts were slung below a belly that topped her husband's in grandeur.
She let out a little gasp and clutched her husband's hand.
Cynthia gripped her husband's hand in a circulation-stopping grip as a deep dip bounced them to the ground.
Ginger had—maybe is still having—an affair with her husband's brother, and if she isn't sleeping with their attorney it isn't because neither isn't trying.
All we had time to do was fix up a friend of Myrtle's friend's husband's antique car!
"Probably just sightseers like us," Cynthia said, taking her husband's hand and leading him away.
She interacted daily with the warrior members of her husband's family, but she'd never seen one quite like this, with soulful, ancient intelligence in his black gaze and a predatory walk.
Dean met Cynthia while officially investigating her first husband's disappearance.
Cynthia, whose tiny five-two body possessed far more gracefulness than her husband's, managed to look as born on blades as the other two skaters.
When the crowd began to break up in earnest, she took her husband's arm and led him to their kitchen where a chicken pot pie was still bubbling on the table.
"Because he has more sense," Cynthia answered, squeezing her husband's arm and turning away.
They had dined at an expensive restaurant, at Fred's booking and in his company, when the only connection between them was Detective Dean investigating her husband's disappearance.
He hadn't spoken to Edith Shipton since her husband's accident and felt, as the host of Bird Song, he owed the woman some sort of condolence.
And, if first impressions meant anything, as Dean believed they did, this woman was sincerely distraught over her husband's disappearance.
Cynthia Byrne explained, in nervous little spurts, how she had heard the news of her husband's disappearance.
Dean sensed part of her was upset by her husband's irresponsible actions.
Dean filled in Lieutenant Leland Anderson on the happenings of the day, detailing his conversations with Cynthia Byrne and her husband's employer.
Dean's mother had raised her only son alone after her husband's death, relying on life insurance proceeds and a series of part-time jobs.
Dean explained he'd just arrived in Norfolk and there was nothing new in the search for her husband's body.
If she got desperate enough, that desire might become her husband's Achilles Heel.
In 1867 she married the economist Henry Fawcett, subsequently PostmasterGeneral (see 10.215), and during her husband's life was closely associated with him in all his work, his blindness making him in many ways extremely dependent upon her.
Mrs. Fawcett had for many years been interested in the higher education of women and in their economic and political future, and was one of the early workers for women's suffrage, becoming more prominent in the cause after her husband's death (1884).
The queen set about to obtain a divorce, and used her influence for the return of Albany as a means of undoing her husband's power.
If there is no issue she takes the whole of the personal estate, while the real estate, subject to her dower, goes first to her husband's father and then to his mother, brothers and sisters.
The wife's desire to know her husband's origin is a parallel of the myth of Cupid and Psyche, and bore in medieval times a similar mystical interpretation.
Almost the only changes which can be called events are his successful establishment of a school at Lincoln.
Her beautiful eyes glanced askance at her husband's face, and her own assumed the timid, deprecating expression of a dog when it rapidly but feebly wags its drooping tail.
The countess reflected a moment and took a pinch from a gold snuffbox with her husband's portrait on it.
I want five hundred rubles, and taking out her cambric handkerchief she began wiping her husband's waistcoat.
It was not merely Dimmler and the Rostovs she failed to recognize, she did not even recognize her own daughters, or her late husband's, dressing gowns and uniforms, which they had put on.
She stopped, seeing in the forward thrust of her husband's head, in his glowing eyes and his resolute gait, the terrible indications of that rage and strength which she knew and had herself experienced after his duel with Dolokhov.
One offered her a clean handkerchief to wipe her charming hands, another spread a jacket under her little feet to keep them from the damp, another hung his coat over the window to keep out the draft, and yet another waved the flies off her husband's face, lest he should wake up.