She would never, never go back. She was an Egyptian, from the magical times. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. 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. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. Or had you not noticed?’ He sneered. You shall tell me if I am wrong. “Take Jacomo for a lover, Lucia.
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