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. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. “Gods!” cried Ann Veronica, and kept him standing. And now she was witnessing or observing the complicated machinery of civilization through which they had come, at length to land on the beach of her island. “She told you that?” “Yes. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all.
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