"I saw the vineyards, but I don't know anything about the making of wine. It was two years ago. I was a little girl then."
"And ye're no very big now," said Mrs. Lindsay, "but the good man thinks everybody, big and little, should be as much taken up about flocks and herds, and land and crops, and vines and wine-making as he is himself. But if you're no going to eat any more we'd better clear away the breakfast, and let us all get to our work, for it's a busy day for more reasons than one."
It was altogether a strange scene to Amy. She had been brought up in comparative poverty, but it had been poverty accompanied by elegance and refinement. This rough plenty, this mixing up of masters and servants, these homely jokes and strong provincial accents, were all as different from her guarded and secluded life as the only child of cultivated and literary people, as could well be imagined. She must take her old place in the spare room; that was the only place for her. She rose to go, but a voice from the sofa interrupted her.