Neither in the new fiction nor in the old was there a place for the unhappy woman who desired to charm but could not; she remained what she had always been--a tragic perversion of nature which romance and realism conspired to ignore.

Women in novels had revolted against life as passionately as she--but one and all they had revolted in graceful attitudes and with abundant braids of hair.

A false front not only extinguished sentiment--it put an end to rebellion.
"Miss Kesiah, dar's Marse Reuben in de hall en he sez he'd be moughty glad ef'n you'd step down en speak a wud wid 'im." "In a moment, Abednego.

I must take off my things." Withdrawing the short jet-headed pins from her bonnet with a hurried movement, she stabbed them into the hard round pincushion on her bureau, and after throwing a knitted cape over her shoulders, went down the wide staircase to where Reuben awaited her in the hall.

As she walked she groped slightly and peered ahead of her with her nervous, short-sighted gaze.
At the foot of the staircase, the old man was standing in a patient attitude, resting upon his wooden leg, which was slightly in advance of his sound one.