‘Talk to me another time. Simply. Oh, it is unbearable. " The clock tinkled ten. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. A few bricks, dislodged probably by his last descent, came clattering down the chimney, and as it was perfectly dark, gave him the notion that some one was endeavouring to force an entrance into the room. 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.
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