He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. He knocked his pipe on the teak rail. We have so much to be thankful for. 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. “What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself.
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