She had been very good-looking.

She was good-looking still, but she remembered the bloom of her looks in her husband's days (the tragedy of the mirror is one for a woman to write: I am ashamed to find myself smiling while the poor lady weeps), she remembered his praises, her pride; his death in battle, her anguish: then, on her strange entry to this house, her bitter wish to be older; and then, the oppressive calm of her recognition of her wish's fulfilment, the heavy drop to dead earth, when she could say, or pretend to think she could say--I look old enough: will they tattle of me now?
Nevil's championship of her good name brought her history spinning about her head, and threw a finger of light on her real position.

In that she saw the slenderness of her hold on respect, as well as felt her personal stainlessness.

The boy warmed her chill widowhood.

It was written that her, second love should be of the pattern of mother's love.