“Absolutely platonically,” she said. She had been obliged to wait all morning for the opportunity to talk to Martha, who chose always to retire to her cell for the period of recreation that preceded afternoon prayers. 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. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here. “It’s—private.
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