That is Wrexby Hall, upon the hill between Fenhurst and Wrexby: the white square mansion, with the lower drawing-room windows one full bow of glass against the sunlight, and great single trees spotting the distant green slopes.

From Queen Anne's Farm you could read the hour by the stretching of their shadows.

Squire Blancove, who lived there, was an irascible, gouty man, out of humour with his time, and beginning, alas for him! to lose all true faith in his Port, though, to do him justice, he wrestled hard with this great heresy.

His friends perceived the decay in his belief sooner than he did himself.

He was sour in the evening as in the morning.