“My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified. The beachcomber, the lowest in the human scale; and some day he would enter into this estate. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air.
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