For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. 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. "Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “It’s your birthday today, May Day. Sheila, a normally sound sleeper, woke one night to find both her husband and her foster daughter had snuck from their beds, and this infuriated her. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. The future was not so black.
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