If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. You must be lonely here with only a few men friends. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent's commission. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. Can I give him any message for you?” “Thank you,” Anna answered. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. I saw it this morning in the Daily Journal—an advertisement, offering a reward—" "A reward!" echoed Jack. She became eager to explain herself, to show herself in the right light. So was I, in fact. 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. Even in death, Vorsack was not a man.
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