The Duchess is a domestic type of angel.

Likes children and bric-a-brac and poultry, and all those things.
Takes no end of trouble about the place." "Why should not I marry the angelic domestic--the domestic angel, I mean ?" "You won't, though.

Doesn't grow in America.

I know the sort of woman you will get for your money." "Give me an idea." Barker leaned back in his chair till it touched the door of the cabin, and rolled his cigar in his mouth.
"Of course she will be the rage for the time.

Eighteen or nineteen summers of earthly growth, and eighteen or nineteen hundred years of experience and calculation in a former state." "Thanks, that sounds promising.