She had a good maid who used her fingers dexterously, and did what she
could with a mistress devoid of all sense of form or color.

Miss Winmarleigh went to the opera regularly and sat solidly through it.
The music said nothing to her, but it was the right place for her to be,
and she could talk to her friends before going on to the numerous balls
she attended.

If she loved anything in the world she loved Hector Bracondale, but her
feelings gave her no anxieties. He would certainly marry her presently,
the affair would be so suitable to all parties; meanwhile, there was
plenty of time, and all was in order. The perfect method of her
account-books, in which the last sixpence she spent in the day was duly
entered, translated itself to her life. Method and order were its
watchwords; and if the people who knew her intimately--such as her
chaperon, Mrs. Herrick, and her maid, Gibson--thought her mean, she was
not aware of their opinion, and went her way in solid rejoicing.

Lady Bracondale was really attached to her. Morella's decorum, her
absence of all daring thought in conversation, pleased her so. She had
none of that feeling when with Miss Winmarleigh she suffered in the
company of her daughter Anne, who said things so often she did not quite
understand, yet which she dimly felt might have two meanings, and one of
them a meaning she most probably would disapprove of.