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. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. CHAPTER XII. I tore the marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. “And how did you find us here?” “I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left. Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. Ramage’s bitterness passed as abruptly as his aggression. . “The bravest of us have joints in our armour. “I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. At once. "And so you've given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?" remarked Hogarth.
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