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‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to allay. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. 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. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. She did not want to feel such negative emotion towards any member of her foster family. “No, I mean that we should assemble ourselves in case your parents arrive home. He smiled inwardly. She was obliged to concede that his features were pleasing, his strength and vitality attractive; and there was no denying how well this uniform of a militia suited his figure, which was lean and powerful both. Stonily he had disengaged himself. He was all alone, like herself. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand.

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