She was so obviously worn out, so obviously "not what she had been," that her face would have been pitiful but for its immovable expression of class pride.
The Grangers of Etchingham, you see, were so absolutely at the top of their own particular kind of tree that it was impossible for them to meet anyone who was not an inferior.

A man might be a cabinet minister, might even be a prince, but he couldn't be a Granger of Etchingham, couldn't have such an assortment of graves, each containing a Granger, behind his back.

The expression didn't even lift for me who had.

It couldn't, it was fixed there.

One wondered what she was doing in this _galere_.