All would go well at the start, the reflections were accepted with a little nod of the head, the descriptions of scenery as ruts on the road that must be got over at a walking pace (my mother did not care for scenery, and that is why there is so little of it in my books).

But now I am reading too quickly, a little apprehensively, because I know that the next paragraph begins with--let us say with, 'Along this path came a woman': I had intended to rush on here in a loud bullying voice, but 'Along this path came a woman' I read, and stop.

Did I hear a faint sound from the other end of the bed?
Perhaps I did not; I may only have been listening for it, but I falter and look up.

My sister and I look sternly at my mother.

She bites her under-lip and clutches the bed with both hands, really she is doing her best for me, but first comes a smothered gurgling sound, then her hold on herself relaxes and she shakes with mirth.
'That's a way to behave!' cries my sister.
'I cannot help it,' my mother gasps.
'And there's nothing to laugh at.' 'It's that woman,' my mother explains unnecessarily.
'Maybe she's not the woman you think her,' I say, crushed.
'Maybe not,' says my mother doubtfully.