‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. “One hardly knows—all the time. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. But I had to know for sure. 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. “I suppose, daddy, you’ve no objection to my going on with my work at the Imperial College?” she asked. I learned of your betrothal, gleaned all the information I could simply by eavesdropping.
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