"It is customary." So she bowed and tried to smile, and the joyous clamour of the bells brought the awful lump into her throat again.

It reminded her of the ringing of the chimes at the New York church on that day of her marriage, which had been so full of gay, luxurious bustle, so crowded with wedding presents, and flowers, and warm-hearted, affectionate congratulations, and good wishes uttered in merry American voices.
The park at Stornham Court was large and beautiful and old.

The trees were magnificent, and the broad sweep of sward and rich dip of ferny dell all that the imagination could desire.

The Court itself was old, and many-gabled and mellow-red and fine.

Rosalie had learned from no precedent as yet that houses of its kind may represent the apotheosis of discomfort and dilapidation within, and only become more beautiful without.