Her hands were beautiful because they paid a manicurist to keep them so, but she was too righteous to powder her nose.

She was the sort of person a man would like his best friend to marry.

Lady Arabel was older: she was virtuous to the same extent as Achilles was invulnerable.
In the beginning, when her soul was being soaked in virtue, the heel of it was fortunately left dry.

She had a husband, but no apparent tragedy in her life.

These two women were obviously not native to their surroundings.