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. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. “No, I’m fine. “He wants me to have dinner at his parent’s house tonight,” still looking at a series of spots on the carpeting. .
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