Kirstie Kirstie was now over fifty, and might have sat to a sculptor.

Long of limb, and still light of foot, deep-breasted, robust-loined, her golden hair not yet mingled with any trace of silver, the years had but caressed and embellished her.

By the lines of a rich and vigorous maternity, she seemed destined to be the bride of heroes and the mother of their children; and behold, by the iniquity of fate, she had passed through her youth alone, and drew near to the confines of age, a childless woman.
The tender ambitions that she had received at birth had been, by time and disappointment, diverted into a certain barren zeal of industry and fury of interference.

She carried her thwarted ardours into housework, she washed floors with her empty heart.

If she could not win the love of one with love, she must dominate all by her temper.