She was a patent shower-bath, coming down on all your cherished sentiments, hopes, and schemes, with a "whish" of heavy extinguishment.

The cheeriest, sprightliest mortal in the world could not have continued gay in her society.

Mark Tapley would have met his match in her, I'm certain.
Next to the demise of her lamented parent--which was indeed an after consideration--Lady Dasher's marriage was the source and well-spring of all her woes.

She had espoused, as soon as she had a will of her own, a handsome young gin distiller, who "ran" a large manufactory in Essex.
People said it was entirely a love match; but, whether that was the case or no, all _I_ know is, that on changing the honoured name of Planetree--the first Earl had been boot-black to the conquering Cromwell in Ireland--for the base-born patronymic Dasher, all her troubles began.
Her noble relatives cut her dead in the first instance, as Dasher, aspiring though he was, aspired a trifle too high.

The connection was never acknowledged; and his papa-in-law, utterly ignoring his entity, never gave him the honour of an invitation to Ballybrogue Castle, the ancestral seat of the Planetrees in Tipperary.
This was not the worst of it, either.