Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. She exhorted Ann Veronica not to become one of “those unsexed intellectuals, neither man nor woman. 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. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round. How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her.
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