Anthony Trollope, Framley Parsonage chp. 22:
“Oh, yes, there is nothing here but this young gentleman’s library,”
said Lucy, moving a pile of ragged, coverless books on to the table.
“I hope he’ll forgive me for moving them.”
“They are not Bob’s,–at least, not the most of them,–but mine,”
said the girl.
“But some of them are mine,” said the boy; “ain’t they, Grace?”
“And are you a great scholar?” asked Lucy, drawing the child to her.
“I don’t know,” said Grace, with a sheepish face. “I am in Greek
Delectus and the irregular verbs.”
“Greek Delectus and the irregular verbs!” And Lucy put up her hands
with astonishment.
“And she knows an ode of Horace all by heart,” said Bob.
“An ode of Horace!” said Lucy, still holding the young shamefaced
female prodigy close to her knees.
“It is all that I can give them,” said Mr. Crawley, apologetically.
“A little scholarship is the only fortune that has come in my way,
and I endeavour to share that with my children.”
“I believe men say that it is the best fortune any of us can have,”
said Lucy, thinking, however, in her own mind, that Horace and the
irregular Greek verbs savoured too much of precocious forcing in a
young lady of nine years old.
