Her father became much less distant towards his only daughter in the days that followed. “Your mother was a Gypsy. Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so.
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