On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. “You know very well that she is selfish and pleasure-loving to the backbone. I’ll do it. We are in love. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. 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. “Only—I have come face to face—with something terrible, and wholly unexpected trouble. That would come later. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression. If so I shall have to leave. Will you answer me a question first?” “If I can,” Ennison said. .
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