She does n't scold nor storm, and she does n't argue nor insist.

She sits with her eyes full of tears that never fall, and looks at me, when I displease her, as if I were a perfect monster of depravity.

And the trouble is that I was born to displease her.

She does n't trust me; she never has and she never will.
I don't know what I have done to set her against me, but ever since I can remember I have been looked at with tears.

The trouble is," he went on, giving a twist to his moustache, "I 've been too absurdly docile.
I 've been sprawling all my days by the maternal fireside, and my dear mother has grown used to bullying me.