I could wish that all such had to earn their own bread like Ann Byron: had she been rich, she would have been unbearable.

Women like her, when they are well to do, walk with a manly stride, make the tails of their dresses go like the screw of a steamer behind them, and are not unfrequently Scotch.
As Mary went up, the music ceased; but, hoping Miss Byrom would be able to enlighten her concerning its source, she continued her ascent, and knocked at her door.

A voice, rather wooden, yet not without character, invited her to enter.
Ann sat near the window, for, although it was quite dusk, a little use might yet be made of the lingering ghost of the daylight.

Almost all Mary could see of her was the reflection from the round eyes of a pair of horn spectacles.
"How do you do, Miss Byrom ?" she said.
"Not at all well," answered Ann, almost in a tone of offense.
"Is there nothing I can do for you ?" asked Mary.
"We are to owe no man anything but love, the apostle tells us." "You must owe a good deal of that, then," said Mary, one part vexed, and two parts amused, "for you don't seem to pay much of it." She was just beginning to be sorry for what she had said when she was startled by a sound, very like a little laugh, which seemed to come from behind her.

She turned quickly, but, before she could see anything through the darkness, the softest of violin-tones thrilled the air close beside her, and then she saw, seated on the corner of Ann's bed, the figure of a man--young or old, she could not tell.