From the time that she, a big girl, had dandled him, a baby, in her lap; throughout her brief youth, when she was engaged to young Mr.
Gascoigne, who died; up to her somewhat silly and helpless middle- age, there never was anybody, to Miss Grey, like "my brother Arnold." Faithfulness is a rare virtue; let us criticise her no more, but pass her over, faults and all.
Miss Gascoigne was a lady who could not be passed over on any account.

Nothing would have so seriously offended her.

From her high nose to her high voice and her particularly high temper, every thing about her was decidedly _prononc_.

There was no extinguishing her or putting her into a corner.

Rather than be unnoticed--if such a thing she could ever believe possible--she would make herself noticeable in any way, even in an ill way.