She was on the shady side of forty, but looked ten years younger.

Her customers admired her and loved to exchange a little coarse badinage in which the good woman more than held her own.
There was a Mr.Fenton somewhere in the world, but his wife was quite indifferent to his existence.

He might be in the West Indian plantations or the hulks for what she cared.

She had always gone her own way and meant to do so to the end of her days.
Apparently she was not in the best of tempers this morning.

A drover who attempted to jest with her was unmercifully snubbed, and so also was a master butcher from Marylebone, who as a rule was received with favour.
But the lady was not in an ill temper with everybody--certainly not with the stolid farmer-like man who was plodding his way through a rumpsteak washed down by small beer.
The coffee shop was divided into boxes and the farmer-like man was seated in one near the door which opened into the kitchen.