“You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. “It’s THE Society!” said Miss Miniver. 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. “Will you help me?” he asked. Despite him, it was the beauty that she had inherited from her mother they had used to gain the betrothal, and it had not been easy. ‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French.
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