Poor Miss Finch THE rectory resembled, in one respect, this narrative that I am now writing.

It was in Two Parts.

Part the First, in front, composed of the everlasting flint and mortar of the neighborhood, failed to interest me.
Part the Second, running back at a right angle, asserted itself as ancient.

It had been, in its time, as I afterwards heard, a convent of nuns.

Here were snug little Gothic windows, and dark ivy-covered walls of venerable stone: repaired in places, at some past period, with quaint red bricks.