Now, let me hear the most refined of cockneys presume to find fault with Yorkshire manners. Taken as they ought to be, the majority of the lads and lasses of the West Riding are gentlemen and ladies, every inch of them. It is only against the weak affectation and futile pomposity of a would-be aristocrat they turn mutinous.
Entering by the back way, the young ladies passed through the kitchen (or _house_, as the inner kitchen is called) to the hall. Mrs. Pryor came running down the oak staircase to meet them. She was all unnerved; her naturally sanguine complexion was pale; her usually placid, though timid, blue eye was wandering, unsettled, alarmed. She did not, however, break out into any exclamations, or hurried narrative of what had happened. Her predominant feeling had been in the course of the night, and was now this morning, a sense of dissatisfaction with herself that she could not feel firmer, cooler, more equal to the demands of the occasion.

Entering by the back way, the young ladies passed through the kitchen to the hall. Mrs. Pryor came running down the staircase to meet them. She was unnerved and pale, and looked alarmed. She felt, more than anything, dissatisfied with herself because she was not more equal to the demands of the occasion.
