He was a remarkably handsome old man, with a distinguished and courtly presence, a head of wonderful white hair, which looked as if it had been powdered, a ruddy unwrinkled face, and the dark shining eyes of the adventurous youth he had never lost.
"Of course, she couldn't have been a dressmaker here where everybody knows her," purred Cousin Pussy, with her arm about Gabriella, "but in New York it is different, and they tell me that even titled women are dressmakers in London." "Well, she has pluck," declared Cousin Jimmy, as he had declared eighteen years ago at the family council.

"There's nothing like pluck when it comes to getting along in the world." Then they sat down in Jane's library, which, contained most of the things Gabriella associated with the old parlour in Hill Street, and Cousin Pussy asked if Gabriella had found many changes.
"A great many.

Everything, looks new to me except this room.

The only thing I miss here is the horsehair sofa." "I keep that in the back hall," said Jane.

"The town does look different up here, but the Peytons' house is just as you remember it--even the scarlet sage is in the garden.