A small voice greeted her, hissing. Oh, you must believe me. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. "No such thing," rejoined the jailer; "he's coming on business. 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. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. " "My dear," observed Wood, "you should be more charitable—" "Charitable!" repeated his wife, "that's your constant cry. ” She thanked him with one of her shy little glances.
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