. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. 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. But all normal humans smelled wonderful to her, even dirty ones. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Lucia had never been so happy, so content.
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