Mrs.Pascoe went indoors, fetched a cream pan, came out, and stood scouring it.

Her face was assuredly not soft, sensual, or lecherous, but hard, wise, wholesome rather, signifying in a room full of sophisticated people the flesh and blood of life.

She would tell a lie, though, as soon as the truth.
Behind her on the wall hung a large dried skate.

Shut up in the parlour she prized mats, china mugs, and photographs, though the mouldy little room was saved from the salt breeze only by the depth of a brick, and between lace curtains you saw the gannet drop like a stone, and on stormy days the gulls came shuddering through the air, and the steamers' lights were now high, now deep.

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
The picture papers were delivered punctually on Sunday, and she pored long over Lady Cynthia's wedding at the Abbey.