When I think of her first, it is always as making some complaint to my father against us.

Perhaps she meant to speak the truth, or rather, perhaps took it for granted that she always did speak the truth; but certainly she would exaggerate things, and give them quite another look.

The bones of her story might be true, but she would put a skin over it after her own fashion, which was not one of mildness and charity.

The consequence was that the older we grew, the more our minds were alienated from her, and the more we came to regard her as our enemy.
If she really meant to be our friend after the best fashion she knew, it was at least an uncomely kind of friendship, that showed itself in constant opposition, fault-finding, and complaint.

The real mistake was that we were boys.