For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. "I don't know; I really don't know. Squire and master. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. 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. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement. “I suppose there’s no way of getting a decent income—independently. "My invitation did not extend to them. "Right!—right!" cried Jack, striking his fettered hands against his breast.
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