Gender issues and economic hardships are dealt with deftly in Doctor Thorne, the third novel in the Chronicles of Barsetshire, and arguably the saga’s finest love story. Set in rural England in the fictitious county of Barsetshire, this Victorian novel is one of Anthony Trollope’s most optimistic and engaging works.
When Henry Thorne seduces local villager Mary Scatcherd, her stonemason brother, Roger, avenges the indignity by murdering Thorne in cold blood. While Roger goes off to prison, Mary follows a promising suitor to the Americas, leaving her illegitimate daughter in the hands of Dr. Thomas Thorne, brother to her murdered lover. The physician names the girl Mary, after her mother, and in an effort to protect the girl’s reputation—and keep her away from her murderous uncle—he keeps her lineage a secret. Later, when young Mary falls in love with the heir of the squire of Greshamsbury, the lad is put in the precarious position of pursuing the girl despite his family’s clear desire for him to marry a woman with titles and a much better financial standing.
Doctor Thorne is one of the most lighthearted and hopeful tales by Trollope. Addressing the flaws inherent in the social mores of his day, the author, a master of the English novel, entreats readers to consider—as his characters must—profound issues of life, love, and morality.
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By Anthony Trollope
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The Greshams of Greshamsbury
Before the reader is introduced to the modest country medical practitioner who is to be the chief personage of the following tale, it will be well that he should be made acquainted with some particulars as to the locality in which, and the neighbours among whom, our doctor followed his profession.
There is a county in the west of England not so full of life, indeed, nor so widely spoken of as some of its manufacturing leviathan brethren in the north, but which is, nevertheless, very dear to those who know it well. Its green pastures, its waving wheat, its deep and shady and — let us add — dirty lanes, its paths and stiles, its tawny-coloured, well-built rural churches, its avenues of beeches, and frequent Tudor mansions, its constant county hunt, its social graces, and the general air of clanship which pervades it, has made it to its own inhabitants a favoured land of Goshen. It is purely agricultural; agricultural in its produce, agricultural in its poor, and agricultural in its pleasures. There are towns in it, of course; dépôts from whence are brought seeds and groceries, ribbons and fire-shovels; in which markets are held and county balls are carried on; which return members to Parliament, generally — in spite of Reform Bills, past, present, and coming — in accordance with the dictates of some neighbouring land magnate: from whence emanate the country postmen, and where is located the supply of post-horses necessary for county visitings. But these towns add nothing to the importance of the county; they consist, with the exception of the assize town, of dull, all but death-like single streets. Each possesses two pumps, three hotels, ten shops, fifteen beer-houses, a beadle, and a market-place.
Indeed, the town population of the county reckons for nothing when the importance of the county is discussed, with the exception, as before said, of the assize town, which is also a cathedral city. Herein is a clerical aristocracy, which is certainly not without its due weight. A resident bishop, a resident dean, an archdeacon, three or four resident prebendaries, and all their numerous chaplains, vicars, and ecclesiastical satellites, do make up a society sufficiently powerful to be counted as something by the county squirearchy. In other respects the greatness of Barsetshire depends wholly on the landed powers.
Barsetshire, however, is not now so essentially one whole as it was before the Reform Bill divided it. There is in these days an East Barsetshire, and there is a West Barsetshire; and people conversant with Barsetshire doings declare that they can already decipher some difference of feeling, some division of interests. The eastern moiety of the county is more purely Conservative than the western; there is, or was, a taint of Peelism in the latter; and then, too, the residence of two such great Whig magnates as the Duke of Omnium and the Earl de Courcy in that locality in some degree overshadows and renders less influential the gentlemen who live near them.
It is to East Barsetshire that we are called. When the division above spoken of was first contemplated, in those stormy days in which gallant men were still combatting reform ministers, if not with hope, still with spirit, the battle was fought by none more bravely than by John Newbold Gresham of Greshamsbury, the member for Barsetshire. Fate, however, and the Duke of Wellington were adverse, and in the following Parliament John Newbold Gresham was only member for East Barsetshire.
Whether or not it was true, as stated at the time, that the aspect of the men with whom he was called on to associate at St Stephen's broke his heart, it is not for us now to inquire. It is certainly true that he did not live to see the first year of the reformed Parliament brought to a close. The then Mr Gresham was not an old man at the time of his death, and his eldest son, Francis Newbold Gresham, was a very young man; but, notwithstanding his youth, and notwithstanding other grounds of objection which stood in the way of such preferment, and which must be explained, he was chosen in his father's place. The father's services had been too recent, too well appreciated, too thoroughly in unison with the feelings of those around him to allow of any other choice; and in this way young Frank Gresham found himself member for East Barsetshire, although the very men who elected him knew that they had but slender ground for trusting him with their suffrages.
Frank Gresham, though then only twenty-four years of age, was a married man, and a father. He had already chosen a wife, and by his choice had given much ground of distrust to the men of East Barsetshire. He had married no other than Lady Arabella de Courcy, the sister of the great Whig earl who lived at Courcy Castle in the west; that earl who not only voted for the Reform Bill, but had been infamously active in bringing over other young peers so to vote, and whose name therefore stank in the nostrils of the staunch Tory squires of the county.
Not only had Frank Gresham so wedded, but having thus improperly and unpatriotically chosen a wife, he had added to his sins by becoming recklessly intimate with his wife's relations. It is true that he still called himself a Tory, belonged to the club of which his father had been one of the most honoured members, and in the days of the great battle got his head broken in a row, on the right side; but, nevertheless, it was felt by the good men, true and blue, of East Barsetshire, that a constant sojourner at Courcy Castle could not be regarded as a consistent Tory. When, however, his father died, that broken head served him in good stead: his sufferings in the cause were made the most of; these, in unison with his father's merits, turned the scale, and it was accordingly decided, at a meeting held at the George and Dragon, at Barchester, that Frank Gresham should fill his father's shoes.
But Frank Gresham could not fill his father's shoes; they were too big for him. He did become member for East Barsetshire, but he was such a member — so lukewarm, so indifferent, so prone to associate with the enemies of the good cause, so little willing to fight the good fight, that he soon disgusted those who most dearly loved the memory of the old squire.
De Courcy Castle in those days had great allurements for a young man, and all those allurements were made the most of to win over young Gresham. His wife, who was a year or two older than himself, was a fashionable woman, with thorough Whig tastes and aspirations, such as became the daughter of a great Whig earl; she cared for politics, or thought that she cared for them, more than her husband did; for a month or two previous to her engagement she had been attached to the Court, and had been made to believe that much of the policy of England's rulers depended on the political intrigues of England's women. She was one who would fain be doing something if she only knew how, and the first important attempt she made was to turn her respectable young Tory husband into a second-rate Whig bantling. As this lady's character will, it is hoped, show itself in the following pages, we need not now describe it more closely.
It is not a bad thing to be son-in-law to a potent earl, member of Parliament for a county, and a possessor of a fine old English seat, and a fine old English fortune. As a very young man, Frank Gresham found the life to which he was thus introduced agreeable enough. He consoled himself as best he might for the blue looks with which he was greeted by his own party, and took his revenge by consorting more thoroughly than ever with his political adversaries. Foolishly, like a foolish moth, he flew to the bright light, and, like the moths, of course he burnt his wings. Early in 1833 he had become a member of Parliament, and in the autumn of 1834 the dissolution came. Young members of three or four-and-twenty do not think much of dissolutions, forget the fancies of their constituents, and are too proud of the present to calculate much as to the future. So it was with Mr Gresham. His father had been member for Barsetshire all his life, and he looked forward to similar prosperity as though it were part of his inheritance; but he failed to take any of the steps which had secured his father's seat.
In the autumn of 1834 the dissolution came, and Frank Gresham, with his honourable lady wife and all the de Courcys at his back, found that he had mortally offended the county. To his great disgust another candidate was brought forward as a fellow to his late colleague, and though he manfully fought the battle, and spent ten thousand pounds in the contest, he could not recover his position. A high Tory, with a great Whig interest to back him, is never a popular person in England. No one can trust him, though there may be those who are willing to place him, untrusted, in high positions. Such was the case with Mr Gresham. There were many who were willing, for family considerations, to keep him in Parliament; but no one thought that he was fit to be there. The consequences were, that a bitter and expensive contest ensued. Frank Gresham, when twitted with being a Whig, foreswore the de Courcy family; and then, when ridiculed as having been thrown over by the Tories, foreswore his father's old friends. So between the two stools he fell to the ground, and, as a politician, he never again rose to his feet.
He never again rose to his feet; but twice again he made violent efforts to do so. Elections in East Barsetshire, from various causes, came quick upon each other in those days, and before he was eight-and-twenty years of age Mr Gresham had three times contested the county and been three times beaten. To speak the truth of him, his own spirit would have been satisfied with the loss of the first ten thousand pounds; but Lady Arabella was made of higher mettle. She had married a man with a fine place and a fine fortune; but she had nevertheless married a commoner and had in so far derogated from her high birth. She felt that her husband should be by rights a member of the House of Lords; but, if not, that it was at least essential that he should have a seat in the lower chamber. She would by degrees sink into nothing if she allowed herself to sit down, the mere wife of a mere country squire.
Thus instigated, Mr Gresham repeated the useless contest three times, and repeated it each time at a serious cost. He lost his money, Lady Arabella lost her temper, and things at Greshamsbury went on by no means as prosperously as they had done in the days of the old squire.
In the first twelve years of their marriage, children came fast into the nursery at Greshamsbury. The first that was born was a boy; and in those happy halcyon days, when the old squire was still alive, great was the joy at the birth of an heir to Greshamsbury; bonfires gleamed through the country-side, oxen were roasted whole, and the customary paraphernalia of joy, usual to rich Britons on such occasions were gone through with wondrous éclat. But when the tenth baby, and the ninth little girl, was brought into the world, the outward show of joy was not so great.
Then other troubles came on. Some of these little girls were sickly, some very sickly. Lady Arabella had her faults, and they were such as were extremely detrimental to her husband's happiness and her own; but that of being an indifferent mother was not among them. She had worried her husband daily for years because he was not in Parliament, she had worried him because he would not furnish the house in Portman Square, she had worried him because he objected to have more people every winter at Greshamsbury Park than the house would hold; but now she changed her tune and worried him because Selina coughed, because Helena was hectic, because poor Sophy's spine was weak, and Matilda's appetite was gone.
Worrying from such causes was pardonable it will be said. So it was; but the manner was hardly pardonable. Selina's cough was certainly not fairly attributable to the old-fashioned furniture in Portman Square; nor would Sophy's spine have been materially benefited by her father having a seat in Parliament; and yet, to have heard Lady Arabella discussing those matters in family conclave, one would have thought that she would have expected such results.
As it was, her poor weak darlings were carried about from London to Brighton, from Brighton to some German baths, from the German baths back to Torquay, and thence — as regarded the four we have named — to that bourne from whence no further journey could be made under the Lady Arabella's directions.
The one son and heir to Greshamsbury was named as his father, Francis Newbold Gresham. He would have been the hero of our tale had not that place been pre-occupied by the village doctor. As it is, those who please may so regard him. It is he who is to be our favourite young man, to do the love scenes, to have his trials and his difficulties, and to win through them or not, as the case may be. I am too old now to be a hard-hearted author, and so it is probable that he may not die of a broken heart. Those who don't approve of a middle-aged bachelor country doctor as a hero, may take the heir to Greshamsbury in his stead, and call the book, if it so please them, "The Loves and Adventures of Francis Newbold Gresham the Younger."
And Master Frank Gresham was not ill adapted for playing the part of a hero of this sort. He did not share his sisters' ill-health, and though the only boy of the family, he excelled all his sisters in personal appearance. The Greshams from time immemorial had been handsome. They were broad browed, blue eyed, fair haired, born with dimples in their chins, and that pleasant, aristocratic dangerous curl of the upper lip which can equally express good humour or scorn. Young Frank was every inch a Gresham, and was the darling of his father's heart.
The de Courcys had never been plain. There was too much hauteur, too much pride, we may perhaps even fairly say, too much nobility in their gait and manners, and even in their faces, to allow of their being considered plain; but they were not a race nurtured by Venus or Apollo. They were tall and thin, with high cheek-bones, high foreheads, and large, dignified, cold eyes. The de Courcy girls had all good hair; and, as they also possessed easy manners and powers of talking, they managed to pass in the world for beauties till they were absorbed in the matrimonial market, and the world at large cared no longer whether they were beauties or not. The Misses Gresham were made in the de Courcy mould, and were not on this account the less dear to their mother.
The two eldest, Augusta and Beatrice, lived, and were apparently likely to live. The four next faded and died one after another — all in the same sad year — and were laid in the neat, new cemetery at Torquay. Then came a pair, born at one birth, weak, delicate, frail little flowers, with dark hair and dark eyes, and thin, long, pale faces, with long, bony hands, and long bony feet, whom men looked on as fated to follow their sisters with quick steps. Hitherto, however, they had not followed them, nor had they suffered as their sisters had suffered; and some people at Greshamsbury attributed this to the fact that a change had been made in the family medical practitioner.
Then came the youngest of the flock, she whose birth we have said was not heralded with loud joy; for when she came into the world, four others, with pale temples, wan, worn cheeks, and skeleton, white arms, were awaiting permission to leave it.
Such was the family when, in the year 1854, the eldest son came of age. He had been educated at Harrow, and was now still at Cambridge; but, of course, on such a day as this he was at home. That coming of age must be a delightful time to a young man born to inherit broad acres and wide wealth. Those full-mouthed congratulations; those warm prayers with which his manhood is welcomed by the grey-haired seniors of the county; the affectionate, all but motherly caresses of neighbouring mothers who have seen him grow up from his cradle, of mothers who have daughters, perhaps, fair enough, and good enough, and sweet enough even for him; the soft-spoken, half-bashful, but tender greetings of the girls, who now, perhaps for the first time, call him by his stern family name, instructed by instinct rather than precept that the time has come when the familiar Charles or familiar John must by them be laid aside; the "lucky dogs," and hints of silver spoons which are poured into his ears as each young compeer slaps his back and bids him live a thousand years and then never die; the shouting of the tenantry, the good wishes of the old farmers who come up to wring his hand, the kisses which he gets from the farmers' wives, and the kisses which he gives to the farmers' daughters; all these things must make the twenty-first birthday pleasant enough to a young heir. To a youth, however, who feels that he is now liable to arrest, and that he inherits no other privilege, the pleasure may very possibly not be quite so keen.
Excerpted from Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope. Copyright © 2016 Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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Table of Contents
The Greshams of Greshamsbury
Long, Long Ago
Lessons from Courcy Castle
Frank Gresham's First Speech
Frank Gresham's Early Loves
The Doctor's Garden
Sir Roger Scatcherd
Sir Roger's Will
The Doctor Drinks His Tea
When Greek Meets Greek, Then Comes the Tug of War
The Two Uncles
Sentence of Exile
The Duke of Omnium
Mr Moffat Falls into Trouble
Sir Roger Is Unseated
Sir Roger Dies
Miss Thorne Goes on a Visit
The Doctor Hears Something to His Advantage
The Donkey Ride
The Small End of the Wedge
A Morning Visit
A Barouche and Four Arrives at Greshamsbury
Sir Louis Goes Out to Dinner
Will He Come Again?
Sir Louis Leaves Greshamsbury
De Courcy Precepts and de Courcy Practice
What the World Says about Blood
The Two Doctors Change Patients
Doctor Thorne Won't Interfere
What Can You Give in Return?
The Race of Scatcherd Becomes Extinct
Saturday Evening and Sunday Morning
Law Business in London
Our Pet Fox Finds a Tail
How the Bride Was Received, and Who Were Asked to the Wedding
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
It is not as economically told as THE WARDEN, not as discursive (or laugh-out-loud hilarious) as BARCHESTER TOWERS. Instead it has balance and energy and the characters fairly sparkle, especially the "good" romantic hero and heroine. We are used to allowing the novelist a boring romantic interest, as long as we're given other pleasures along the way; but Frank and Mary may just be the most fun personalities in their own story. No mean feat, as any reader knows, the creation of virtuous characters who are also sharp and amusing enough to carry their weight. Frank's quasi-courtship of Miss Dunstable, the delightful if ugly "oil of Lebanon" heiress, is a brilliant stroke, and the happy ending is (very carefully) not reached until Frank has proven himself worthy of it. You feel in such good hands with Trollope. Nothing too awful will happen to anyone, at least not without much warning, and all the deserving characters will get their heart's desire. It's like sitting down after a good dinner over brandy with a friend who is incomparably witty, candid, and good-natured. It might, literarily speaking, be fluff, after all; but it's fluff raised to an art form. It's impossible to imagine a novel more completely entertaining than DR THORNE. You know from almost the first page how the plot will conclude, but the getting there is delicious.
Like all of Trollope, it takes no time to get "into" this book. In no way do you have to "get through" any pages to be taken up by the story. There is one trait of Trollope that might not be everyone's cup of tea, his taking of the reader into his confidence. He breaks down the fourth wall and tells you, the reader, that he is telling this story and that he is choosing which characters will figure most prominently. (This is similar to the movie "Tom Jones' in which the characters turn to the camera and the viewer joins the character's take on whatever is going on in the scene.) Trollope does this in all his books and I find it a very likable trait. I like the fact that the author feels confident enough to take me into his confidence and tell me how he is thinking.
Except the fact that the main female protagonist gets rich in such a short duration following the quick deaths of her uncle and cousin, everything else is handled very well. Having observed this limitation the writer succeeds in keep the reader engrossed in the plot throughout this moderately big book. There are few bumps on the way but its possible to read the book in 2 days and immensely enjoy it, this itself is a fete and very few writers have then or since able to achieve the same.
Loved the movie; love the book. Delightful in the narrative presentation and interesting in it’s vocabulary of the times. The way things are said puts an interesting aspect to the how people change in this way.
Dr Thorne raises his niece, Mary, as if she were his own daughter. But she isn't. She's the illegitimate daughter of working man made good, Sir Roger Scatchard. He has named his sister's eldest child as his heir and that child is Mary Thorne.
Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope's third Barsetshire chronicle, moves away from the ecclesiastical confabulations of the first two books and into the realm of domestic intrigue a lá Austen. Published in 1858, this novel follows the lives of Mary Thorne, whose illegitimate birth has been hushed up by her uncle the doctor, and Frank Gresham, heir to the heavily mortgaged Greshambury estate. Frank and Mary fall in love, of course, but Frank simply must marry money. And the doctor's niece has none. The story deals with many themes, including the social stigma of illegitimacy, the pressing need of good families to marry money, the horrible effects of alcohol addiction, the corrupt election process, and what integrity really looks like. Trollope's careful pen draws the eye to every human foible without being merciless in this gently humorous tale. The story and characters reminded me of Elizabeth Gaskell's Wives and Daughters. Molly and Mary are very similar; both have as a father-figure the local country doctor, both fall in love with a young man of higher rank, and both are persecuted in their social circles for a perceived indiscretion. Doctor Gibson and Doctor Thorne are also similar¿reserved, prideful, principled, fiercely protective, and Scottish! My favorite character is probably Miss Dunstable, an heiress who has no illusions about her money and the fawning hangers-on it purchases. She is thrown together with Frank in order that he may marry money and save the family honor, but they soon come to a right understanding. She becomes Mary's champion, urging Frank to remain faithful to her no matter what his family says. She's that great.Trollope is just as comfortable with female characters as male; his portraits of Lady Arabella and the relationships among the female de Courcy cousins are spot-on, with that dash of satire to give the whole thing spice (like when Augusta Gresham's haughty cousin advises her against marrying a lowly lawyer... and eventually marries the selfsame man herself!). Some may find Trollope's narrative voice intrusive, but I for one enjoy being told that things will turn out all right. But though he does tell us some things ahead of time, other things he keeps secret till the very end. It's just enough suspense to keep me reading madly. Once again, Trollope delivers. I'm thankful to have discovered his work.
2007, Blackstone Audiobooks, Read by Simon VanceTrollope¿s Chronicles of Barsetshire are a source of delight for me, and Dr. Thorne more than lived up to my expectations. True to form, Trollope delights with manors and manners, money and the lack of it, highborns and illegitimates, romance and scandal. Naturally, class distinctions are ever-present as the prominent families of the novel are introduced: the very moral, very middle-class Thornes; the Greshams, entitled by birth but near bankrupt on account of poor management; the Scatcherds, not entitled by birth, but exorbitantly wealthy; and the De Coursys, high-born, wealthy, entitled, and arrogant. Excitement ensues when Frank Gresham and Mary Thorne fall in love. Mary, though well raised, well loved, and well mannered, is not only exceedingly middle-class but, much worse, illegitimate and poor. And Frank¿s father has put him in a position where he must marry for money or risk the family estate. ¿Instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison, purse chinks to purse.¿ (9/18) Oh, the Victorian drama! At its heart, Dr. Thorne is a character story. To a fault, the characters are round and relatable: the doctor, compassionate, sensible, and loyal; Mary Thorne, mannered, independent, and indignant; Lady Arabella Gresham, highborn, insufferable, and broke; Frank Gresham, noble, honest, and also near broke; Sir Roger Scatcherd, obscenely wealthy, ruthless, and hopelessly alcoholic. The novel is wonderfully written and perfectly read by Simon Vance in this Blackstone Audiobook. Trollope¿s humour, wit, and gentle social sarcasm make for delightful entertainment. Highly recommended!
Oh, those wacky Victorians! Frank Gresham and Mary Thorne are "in love," but how can they possibly marry? After all, Mary's parents never married ... in fact, her father had seduced her mother, a poor serving girl, and then was killed by the mother's brother once the pregnancy was discovered. And, needless to say, she's not exactly well off from a monetary point of view.Meanwhile, Frank's father has run the family estate into some serious financial problems, and Frank has to "marry money" if he's to save the day.Various coincidences and much agonizing occur before, and I don't think this will spoil the book for anyone, the happy ending.Yet for all the soap opera-ish aspects of the book, I very much enjoyed it, as I have all of Trollope's books. As the saying goes, if you like this kind of thing, this is exactly the kind of thing you're going to like.Note: Coincidentally, I was reading Henry Adams' Education at the same time as I was reading this. It's fascinating to consider they were both written during about the same time, the second half of the 19th century, when you consider how very very far about Adams' and Trollope's world vies seem to be.
Frank loves Mary. Mary loves Frank. Frank's father is broke and aristocratic. Frank needs to marry money, and lots of it. Mary is broke and illegitimate. Frank's mother refuses to have Mary in the house. Mary's uncle is rich and dying and holds the mortgage on Frank's father's estate. But no-one knows that he is Mary's uncle. Least of all Mary.The plot is straightforward, but that doesn't matter. There are numerous tiny twists and turns wending sinuously through the book, keeping it moving along. The characters are wonderful, and the sub-plots are wonderful. (I was laughing aloud at the account of the Barchester election, the feud between Drs Thorne and Fillgrave, and at the unfortunate Miss Gushing turning Methodist.) The writing is wonderful. In fact, the whole book is wonderful and now I am gushing.
Includes a moving description of the alcoholic Sir Roger Scatcherd. The Doctor struggles to find a balance between professional responsibility, compassion and enabling in Sir Roger's dramatic death scene.
The third novel in Trollope's Barsetshire series is better than The Warden, but doesn't quite reach the level of Barchester Towers. This time, the story takes place out in the country, though characters from the earlier two make cameos. Dr. Thorne, relative of the previously mentioned Ullathornes, is an unassuming country doctor with his illegitimate niece Mary. They both enjoy the patronage of the Greshams, the local squire's family with links to the titled de Courcys. Unfortunately, Squire Gresham's estate is mortgaged due to poor management and eldest son Frank must marry money to save the family name and lands. Of course, Frank and Mary fall in love and disaster ensues. Trollope's usual wit, sublime prose and comforting narrator are all present. However, this offering deals with a variety of class issues.The author unreservedly condemns mercenary marriages - it's just another form of selling yourself. Lady Arabella Gresham supports them and the de Courcy girls contemplate how much, exactly, they would have to sell themselves for. Mary Thorne, the admirable heroine, says she'd never marry for money and does prove herself by turning down an offer from a rich but boorish man she doesn't love. Augusta Gresham's engagement of money-meets-nobility turns sour. Miss Dunstable, a wealthy heiress with no name, is portrayed as practical and caring when she turns down numerous mercenary proposals and encourages Frank to stay loyal to Mary.However, the novel does display some class ambivalence. Mary remarks that if she were situated like the Greshams, she would never marry below her class for money. Whether she would do it for love remains unanswered - Trollope sidesteps the question of whether the match between Frank and a penniless Mary would be laudable. Sir Roger Scatchard's class switch, resulting from his new money, also seems to warn against transgressing class boundaries. Although Roger is intelligent and industrious, he retains his vulgar habits and alcoholism from former days. Dr. Thorne is his only friend - he admits he's no longer comfortable amongst workers of his former class but can't mix with the educated gentry. His son, Sir Louis, is much worse.The novel runs a bit long, but still very good.
I understand that a free version of a book may not be perfect, because then people might not pay for books. However, the mistakes in this were well beyond reasonable & this book should be pulled. Aside from words having numbers & symbols in them, the TITLE character's name was spelled incorrectly throughout. Free books on Kindle do not have mistakes like this. Not even close. It shows poor custormer service to allow something this poorly done to be downloaded.