I could not love you else. His father and his four brothers had perished, leaving him to collect all of their spoils and various kingdoms. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. 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 know about my scandalous past?” “Very little. I told him the truth.
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