“You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. 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. I don’t mind telling you chaps that except on the stage I haven’t set eyes on her this side of the water. He tried again. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. It isn't for their sakes, it's for your own. And the situation it makes!—the situation!” Thus Manning, egotistical, inconsecutive, unreal.
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