Her mother's looks were famous--she was daughter to one of the Earl's cottagers, on the edge of the moors"-- here Mr.
Rogers jerked his thumb significantly, but in what direction the night hid from me: "married old Sam Belcher, one of his lordship's keepers, a fellow not fit to black her boots; and had this one child, Lydia.

This was just about the time of the Earl's own marriage.
Folks talked, of course: and sure enough, when the Earl came to die, 'twas found he'd left Lydia a thousand a year in the funds.
That's the story: and Lydia--well she's Lydia.

Couldn't marry where she would, I suppose, and wouldn't where she could; though they do say Whitmore 's trimming sail for her." "Whitmore ?" I echoed.
"Ay, the curate: monstrous clever fellow, and a sportsman too: Trinity College Dublin man.

Don't happen to know him, do you ?" "Is he a thin-faced gentleman, very neatly dressed?
Oh, but it can't be the gentleman I mean, sir! The one I mean has a slow way of speaking, and the hair seems gone on each side of his forehead--" "That's Whitmore, to a T.

So you know him?
Well, you'll meet him at Lydia's, I shouldn't wonder.