His instinct was in the direction of considering his daughters his absolute property, bound to obey him, his to give away or his to keep to be a comfort in his declining years just as he thought fit. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. 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. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. ToC Mrs. He stood still, almost breathless. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold.
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