Hey. There are way-stations—even terminals. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that. That’s got his nerves to rags. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. ” “Then you had better ring the bell,” she declared, laughing.
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