For many years his was the only kindness she ever knew; the only friendship that solaced in any way that feeble, lonely soul.

Her heart was dead long before her body.

She had sold it to become Sir Pitt Crawley's wife.

Mothers and daughters are making the same bargain every day in Vanity Fair.
When the demise took place, her husband was in London attending to some of his innumerable schemes, and busy with his endless lawyers.

He had found time, nevertheless, to call often in Park Lane, and to despatch many notes to Rebecca, entreating her, enjoining her, commanding her to return to her young pupils in the country, who were now utterly without companionship during their mother's illness.