But eventually Spurlock laughed. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. For so far she had kept it uncashed. "O lud! what an exquisite box!" cried Edgeworth Bess. "Or trying to be," answered the doctor. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. 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. But the Ramage affair needed clearing up, of course; it was a flaw upon that project.
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