Book after book was added to the heap of failures, Miss Murdstone being firmly watchful of us all the time.

And when we came at last to the five thousand cheeses (canes he made it that day, I remember), my mother burst out crying.
'Clara!' said Miss Murdstone, in her warning voice.
'I am not quite well, my dear Jane, I think,' said my mother.
I saw him wink, solemnly, at his sister, as he rose and said, taking up the cane: 'Why, Jane, we can hardly expect Clara to bear, with perfect firmness, the worry and torment that David has occasioned her today.

That would be stoical.

Clara is greatly strengthened and improved, but we can hardly expect so much from her.

David, you and I will go upstairs, boy.' As he took me out at the door, my mother ran towards us.