“I feel shabby and disgraced. Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. Huge trees obscured the view of it. 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. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. “You will go and see her,” he begged. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. B. We have a very nice set of young people here too just at present, and you would soon make some friends.
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