She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. “My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. How I could have been such a fool I’ll never know. When he returned, it was always the same. "Something worse, I fear," Wood replied. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. She doubted if Manning would even listen to that. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. He returned, sitting on the floor beside the couch adoring her and stroking her bare arms. She saw it, and checked without thinking. It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand. In the matter of his conscience he was primitive; and for an educated man to become primitive is to become something of a child. He looked the boy over with interest.
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