To continue, my age is...' 'Oh, impossible, impossible,' the General almost wailed; there was really a crack in his voice.
'Advancing to seventy.

But, like you, I am happy to say I have not a malady.

I bring no invalid frame to a union that necessitates the leaving of the front door open day and night to the doctor.

My belief is, I could follow my husband still on a campaign, if he were a warrior instead of a pensioner.' General Ople winced.
He was about to say humbly, 'As General of Brigade...' 'Yes, yes, you want a commanding officer, and that I have seen, and that has caused me to meditate on your proposal,' she interrupted him; while he, studying her countenance hard, with the painful aspect of a youth who lashes a donkey memory in an examination by word of mouth, attempted to marshal her signs of younger years against her awful confession of the extremely ancient, the witheringly ancient.

But for the manifest rouge, manifest in spite of her declaration that she had not yet that morning proceeded to her paintbrush, he would have thrown down his glove to challenge her on the subject of her age.