For the struggle, which had stolen her first freshness and left faintly perceptible lines in her expressive face, had not robbed her of the eyes and the heart of a girl.
"I don't count George, somehow," retorted Miss Polly.

"That wan't like marryin' a real man, you know, and, when all's said and done, a lone woman gets mighty hard and dried up." "But I can't marry when there's nobody to marry me," laughed Gabriella.
"I haven't seen a man for seven years except in the street or occasionally in the shop.

Men have either passed me by without seeing me or they have wanted to sell me something." At the sound of the children's voices she slipped out of the serge skirt, and began hurriedly fastening the old black silk gown she wore at dinner.

Through all the years of toil and self-denial she had preserved a certain formality of living, a gracious ease of manner, which she kept for the evenings with her children.

Cares were thrust away then, to be taken up again as soon as Fanny and Archibald were in bed, and no matter how hard the day had been, she was always cheerful, always gay and light-hearted for the dinner hour by the fireside.