Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. He may die. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. She frowned, appearing to think for a moment. "And yet, he has been spared thus long; perhaps with a wise purpose," rejoined Thames. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long. I wanted something alive. His subjects, however, were no longer entirely under his control; and, though he managed to enforce some little attention to his commands, it was evident his authority was waning fast. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. Lucy thought of herself as belonging to Sebastian whether she liked it or not.
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