I would hide her spectacles in it, and lay it on top of the clothes-basket and prop it up invitingly open against her tea-pot.

And at last I got her, though I forget by which of many contrivances.

What I recall vividly is a key-hole view, to which another member of the family invited me.

Then I saw my mother wrapped up in 'The Master of Ballantrae' and muttering the music to herself, nodding her head in approval, and taking a stealthy glance at the foot of each page before she began at the top.

Nevertheless she had an ear for the door, for when I bounced in she had been too clever for me; there was no book to be seen, only an apron on her lap and she was gazing out at the window.
Some such conversation as this followed:-- 'You have been sitting very quietly, mother.' 'I always sit quietly, I never do anything, I'm just a finished stocking.' 'Have you been reading ?' 'Do I ever read at this time of day ?' 'What is that in your lap ?' 'Just my apron.' 'Is that a book beneath the apron ?' 'It might be a book.' 'Let me see.' 'Go away with you to your work.' But I lifted the apron.