Did she ever get any kind of teaching; book-learning, or anything of that sort ?" Dr Thorne at this moment hated his friend the baronet with almost a deadly hatred; that he, rough brute as he was--for he was a rough brute--that he should speak in such language of the angel who gave to that home in Greshamsbury so many of the joys of Paradise--that he should speak of her as in some degree his own, that he should inquire doubtingly as to her attributes and her virtues.

And then the doctor thought of her Italian and French readings, of her music, of her nice books, and sweet lady ways, of her happy companionship with Patience Oriel, and her dear, bosom friendship with Beatrice Gresham.

He thought of her grace, and winning manners, and soft, polished feminine beauty; and, as he did so, he hated Sir Roger Scatcherd, and regarded him with loathing, as he might have regarded a wallowing hog.
At last a light seemed to break in upon Sir Roger's mind.

Dr Thorne, he perceived, did not answer his last question.

He perceived, also, that the doctor was affected with some more than ordinary emotion.
Why should it be that this subject of Mary Scatcherd's child moved him so deeply?
Sir Roger had never been at the doctor's house at Greshamsbury, had never seen Mary Thorne, but he had heard that there lived with the doctor some young female relative; and thus a glimmering light seemed to come in upon Sir Roger's bed.
He had twitted the doctor with his pride; had said that it was impossible that the girl should be called Mary Thorne.