CHAPTER XXI. Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. Amongst other things, he had just brought down an old laced bavaroy, a species of surtout much worn at the period. When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided. 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’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. Spurlock was tremendously interested in these derelicts, and got a good deal of information regarding them, which he stored away for future use.
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