She looked as though she knew it,--but only after that fashion in which a woman ought to know it. Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. She was in truth over thirty,--perhaps almost as near thirty-five as thirty. But she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch.
"You are beautiful as ever you were," he said.
"Psha! Do not tell me of that. I care nothing for my beauty unless it can bind me to your love. Sit down there and tell me what it means." Then she let go his hand, and seated herself opposite to the chair which she gave him.

Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. She was in truth over thirty. But she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch.
"You are as beautiful as ever you were," he said.
"Psha! I care nothing for my beauty unless it can bind me to your love. Sit down and tell me what it means." She seated herself opposite him.
