Like a miser, she has hoarded her feelings within her own breast.

Not a penny piece has she changed all these years, and, watching her enviously, it seems as if all within must be pure gold.
The wise old woman, having fixed her eyes upon the sea, once more withdrew.

The tourists decided that it was time to move on to the Gurnard's Head.
Three seconds later Mrs.Durrant rapped upon the door.
"Mrs.Pascoe ?" she said.
Rather haughtily, she watched the tourists cross the field path.

She came of a Highland race, famous for its chieftains.
Mrs.Pascoe appeared.
"I envy you that bush, Mrs.Pascoe," said Mrs.Durrant, pointing the parasol with which she had rapped on the door at the fine clump of St.
John's wort that grew beside it.

Mrs.Pascoe looked at the bush deprecatingly.
"I expect my son in a day or two," said Mrs.Durrant.