She hated, in her calm, quiet way, almost every one else who came near her--every one, from her neighbor, the duke, who had slighted her at dinner, down to John the footman, who had torn a hole in her train.

I think this woman's heart was like one of them lithograffic stones, you CAN'T RUB OUT ANY THING when once it's drawn or wrote on it; nor could you out of her ladyship's stone--heart, I mean--in the shape of an affront, a slight, or real, or phansied injury.

She boar an exlent, irreprotchable character, against which the tongue of scandal never wagged.

She was allowed to be the best wife posbill--and so she was; but she killed her old husband in two years, as dead as ever Mr.Thurtell killed Mr.William Weare.

She never got into a passion, not she--she never said a rude word; but she'd a genius--a genius which many women have--of making A HELL of a house, and tort'ring the poor creatures of her family, until they were wellnigh drove mad.
Miss Matilda Griffin was a good deal uglier, and about as amiable as her mother-in-law.