He glanced at the red pen and exams laid out on the table, then at his wife's earnestly inviting gaze. Scholar Quincy took a deep breath and, a few seconds later, resigned himself to his fate, sitting down on the sofa to grade the papers.
'Damn it, I'm used to this by now.'
To use Holly Winslow's phrase: when one person becomes a teacher, the whole family gets roped into grading papers.
Holly Winslow snuck a peek at him and let out a shameless laugh. She then tried to soothe his wounded, disgruntled heart. "Be a good boy, honey. Finish grading the papers, and there will be plenty of rewards."
Hearing "plenty of rewards," Mortimer Quincy arched an eyebrow. The red pen in his hand started to move faster, as if he didn't even need to read the questions carefully.
Holly Winslow: "..."
She was suddenly reminded of something Gabe Chaucer used to say: "In class, a gust of wind could knock them over; after class, not even a dog could catch them."
