I am something of an old fogey, Anna, I’m afraid, but if you treat me like this you will teach me to forget it. Sheppard remained dissolved in tears. 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. “You’re exactly as I remember you!” “Forever fifteen, remember?” She stepped closer to him into the light of the television screen. His room was last at the end of one winding corner. “I should like to understand you,” he said. There sprang from that a vague hope that perhaps she might extort a capitulation from her father by a threat to seek that position, and then with overwhelming clearness it came to her that whatever happened she would never be able to tell her father about her debt.
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