It was well, very well, conventionally, to address either one of them in the wife's regulation terms of virtuous sarcasm, as woman, creature, or thing, for losing their hearts to her husband.

But life, what was it, and who was she?
She had, like the singer of the psalm of Asaph, been plagued and chastened all the day long; but could she, by retributive words, in order to please herself--the individual--"offend against the generation," as he would not?
"He is dying, perhaps," blubbered Suke Damson, putting her apron to her eyes.
In their gestures and faces there were anxieties, affection, agony of heart, all for a man who had wronged them--had never really behaved towards either of them anyhow but selfishly.

Neither one but would have wellnigh sacrificed half her life to him, even now.

The tears which his possibly critical situation could not bring to her eyes surged over at the contemplation of these fellow-women.

She turned to the balustrade, bent herself upon it, and wept.
Thereupon Felice began to cry also, without using her handkerchief, and letting the tears run down silently.