She might be thirty, but she looked younger.

With her pleasant home and her pleasant husband, and her child to be mildly anxious about, she might well look young.

She looked particularly so now as she sat in her fresh cotton draperies, winding wool with cool, white hands.
The handiwork of some women has a hard, masculine look.

If they sew, it is with thick cotton in some coarse material; if they knit, it is with cricket-balls of wool, which they manipulate into wiry stockings and comforters.

Evelyn's wools, on the contrary, were always soft, fleecy, liable to weak-minded tangles, and so turning, after long periods of time, into little feminine futilities for which it was difficult to divine any possible use.
Lady Mary Cunningham, her husband's aunt, made no immediate reply to her small remark.