Mrs.Hastings had the hands that are fettered by little creases at the wrists and whose wedding rings always seem to be uncomfortably snug.

She sat down, and her former activity dissolved, as it were, into another sort of energy and became fragments of talk.

Mrs.Hastings was like the old woman in Ovid who sacrificed to the goddess of silence, but could never keep still; save that Mrs.Hastings did not sacrifice.
"Good morning, Mr.St.George," she said.

"I'm sure I've quite forgotten everything.

Olivia dear, I've had all the prescriptions made up that I've ever taken to Rutledge's, because no one can tell what the climate will be like, it's so low on the map.