Ann Veronica was apologetic to the bottom of her soul. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. “It’s the spring,” he said. 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. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. However good you were to me, and however happy I was in other ways, I should find this intolerable. "Added to which, she is neither so young as she was, nor, is her temper by any means improved—hem!" "Say no more on the subject, Sir," observed the stranger, gravely; "but let us turn to a more agreeable one—her daughter.
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