And the Doones were of very high birth, as all we clods of Exmoor knew; and we had enough of good teaching now--let any man say the contrary--to feel that all we had belonged of right to those above us.

Therefore my mother was half-ashamed that she could not help complaining.
But after a little while, as she said, remembrance of her husband came, and the way he used to stand by her side and put his strong arm round her, and how he liked his bacon fried, and praised her kindly for it--and so the tears were in her eyes, and nothing should gainsay them.
A tall old man, Sir Ensor Doone, came out with a bill-hook in his hand, hedger's gloves going up his arms, as if he were no better than a labourer at ditch-work.

Only in his mouth and eyes, his gait, and most of all his voice, even a child could know and feel that here was no ditch-labourer.

Good cause he has found since then, perhaps, to wish that he had been one.
With his white locks moving upon his coat, he stopped and looked down at my mother, and she could not help herself but curtsey under the fixed black gazing.
'Good woman, you are none of us.

Who has brought you hither?
Young men must be young--but I have had too much of this work.' And he scowled at my mother, for her comeliness; and yet looked under his eyelids as if he liked her for it.