I’m right again now. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. This is grace I am saying! Oh! my dear! all the joy and weeping of life are mixed in me now and all the gratitude. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. 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. But did any woman get anything better from a man? Perhaps every woman conceals herself from a man perforce!. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman. Yes, I think we have thoroughly thrashed that one out.
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