A dumb and grumbling anger swelled his bosom.

It was vulgar to be stout, to talk of being stout; he had a chest, nothing more.

Turning to his sister, he grasped her hand, and said in a tone of command: "Well, Juley." Mrs.Septimus Small was the tallest of the four sisters; her good, round old face had gone a little sour; an innumerable pout clung all over it, as if it had been encased in an iron wire mask up to that evening, which, being suddenly removed, left little rolls of mutinous flesh all over her countenance.

Even her eyes were pouting.

It was thus that she recorded her permanent resentment at the loss of Septimus Small.
She had quite a reputation for saying the wrong thing, and, tenacious like all her breed, she would hold to it when she had said it, and add to it another wrong thing, and so on.