Please would you correct the mistakes in the third part of my story, A Letter of complaint.

We took a stroll down to the beach, as we had done every time since our first visit forty years ago. The beach and the sea were the same as well as the sand crunching under our feet. But something had changed in my feelings. We performed our ritual that included holding hands, hugging, kissing, watching the waves sparkling under the sun and breaking into foam, and we told each other how we loved each other so much. I would lie if I told you I was happy at that moment. A dark cloud of doubt hovered over me. For the first time after so many decades, I asked myself if my wife had been faithful to me. The look she gave to the little Italian had posed a series of questions on which I would probably never get the answers. I know that many women are prone to hide their true feelings and to manipulate their men, and I asked myself how cunning my wife is. I had spent months working away from home, and I had no idea what she could have done during that time. It could have been that while I was toiling in godforsaken towns, she had the best time of her life in the embrace of her lovers. But I had no courage to ask and risk a serious quarrel and the possible breakup of our marriage. Therefore, I kept a poker face all the way back to our hotel.

We went downstairs for a swim in the hotel pool. As we stood under the shower, we noticed that the drain was clogged with hairs and dirt. My my wife looked up above the shower and saw two large, black spiders. She screamed and slipped on the wet tiles, and if I had not been beside her to hold her up, she would have probably broken her leg.
We both were upset, and I immediately went to the reception and made a complaint to Mr John, who promptly went searching for his boss. Presently, Mr Schulz came to the pool, prodding with a finger in front of him a young woman. He shoved her down to the drain and holding her by her neck shouted at her, “Why didn’t you do your job properly?” He then pulled her upwards and pointing at the spiders shouted again, “Do you want to eat them up?”
The poor girl was visibly in distress. There were tears and fear in her eyes. I regretted my decision to make a complaint and felt sorry for the cleaner. We were astounded when we saw Mr Schulz taking a toothbrush out of the inner pocket of his double-breasted jacket. He gave it to the girl and ordered her to clean all the tiles with it. The poor girl got on with her task at once without ever looking up. Mr Schulz then turned to us, apologized profusely and strode out.

My wife and I were deeply affected by what we had seen and were shaken to the point of tears. What had happened was a kind of torture, which was unbelievable to be happening in a civilised country. I asked the girl about her name, and she answered without looking up that her name was Rafaela. She had come from a little Portuguese village, where she grew up in a family with six brothers and sisters. Now all they depended on her job and her money, which she sent home every month. She told us all this while crying and scrubbing the tiles with the toothbrush. I took a pity on her and gave her some money. She looked up at me for a second, thanked me and shoved the money under her apron. Do I need to tell you that we had thought about her the rest of the evening? Before I went to sleep, I slunk downstairs to the pool and saw her toiling on her hands and knees, her hair dishevelled, her clothes drenched in sweat.

To be continued