Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. Throughout the afternoon, while the doctor was giving her the first lesson out of his profound knowledge of life, her interest would break away continually, despite her honest efforts to pin it down to the facts so patiently elucidated for her. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. You don’t understand. Wood could not avoid making a slight shuffling sound. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. 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. Priests and princes sought his knowledge of languages and philosophy and wantonly tried to throw themselves into his bed.
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