“What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. 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. ‘Comment? You have then met this Suzanne?’ The woman turned a deep red. She had underestimated his animal ability to sense weakness. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. I wouldn't trust a Malay, not if he were reared in the Vatican. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. .
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