But they recall no feeling of disgust or reluctance.

On the contrary, I seem to have walked along a path of flowers as far as the crocodile-book, and to have been cheered by the gentleness of my mother's voice and manner all the way.

But these solemn lessons which succeeded those, I remember as the death-blow of my peace, and a grievous daily drudgery and misery.

They were very long, very numerous, very hard--perfectly unintelligible, some of them, to me--and I was generally as much bewildered by them as I believe my poor mother was herself.
Let me remember how it used to be, and bring one morning back again.
I come into the second-best parlour after breakfast, with my books, and an exercise-book, and a slate.

My mother is ready for me at her writing-desk, but not half so ready as Mr.Murdstone in his easy-chair by the window (though he pretends to be reading a book), or as Miss Murdstone, sitting near my mother stringing steel beads.