Wood; "and Blueskin, too. Besides, revenge is sweetened by delay; and I indulge too freely in the passion to rob it of any of its zest. She wanted to take him in her arms and hush him, but she sat perfectly still. She covered herself with her arms. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. But I am here. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. 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. He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. And Leonardo told me never to trust any man. Well, if she survives the accident—as the blood, who styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—this ring will make my fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this strange affair. The villagers were thronging to church.
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