In London, anybody, at any moment, might do or become anything. But in a village - no matter what village - they were all immutably themselves: parson, organist, sweep, duke’s son and doctor’s daughter, moving like chessmen upon their allotted squares. She was curiously excited. She thought, ‘I have married England.’ Her fingers tightened on his arm.
England, serenely unaware of his symbolic importance, acknowledged the squeeze with a pressure of the elbow.
Busman’s Honeymoon, by Dorothy L Sayers (1937)