“Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. 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. Make up your mind as to the terms, and I'll engage to find the man. You are taking it for granted that I am ‘Alcide. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. She was good to me for the two years I stayed with her, she had a nice apartment in Galveston. A species of vertigo seized him.
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