“I hope you will not compel me to say again that I do not know the man’s name, nor, to the best of my belief, have I ever seen him before in my life. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. ” Lucy commented. 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. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. “He’s got good taste, you know. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Come with me, Langley, and bring the lantern. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm.
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