There was a legend, fading now into tradition, that her lover had been killed in a duel, fought for her while she was still a girl, and that she had worn only white or black since that day--she who was now well over eighty.

She had known love; a man had died for her; it was said that she had been a famous coquette in the 'thirties; and now she stood there, grotesque and sexless, with her eyes empty of dreams and of memories, and her face as gray and sinister as the face of her shadow.
"I hope she is better, poor child," she said, for, like the rest of Richmond, she believed Jane to be all saint and Charley all sinner.

"If I can be of any help, be sure to let me know." "Yes, I'll let you know, thank you.

I hope we didn't disturb Miss Jemima." The younger Miss Peterborough--called "the happy one" by Gabriella and Mrs.Carr because she was always cheerful, though, as far as any one could tell, she had nothing and had never had anything to be cheerful about--was named Jemima.

A chronic invalid, from some obscure trouble which had not left her for twenty years, she was seldom free from pain, and yet Gabriella had never seen her (except at funerals, for which she entertained a perfectly healthy fondness as diversions free to the poor) without a smile on her face.
"Sister Jemima doesn't wake easily.