But I fancied she did not read, but pursued her own dark ruminations, for I observed that the open book might often lie for half an hour or more under her eyes and yet the leaf never turned.
I should have been glad to be assured that she prayed when on her knees, or read when that book was before her; I should have felt that she was more canny and human.

As it was, those external pieties made a suspicion of a hollow contrast with realities that helped to scare me; yet it was but a suspicion--I could not be certain.
Our rector and the curate, with whom she was very gracious, and anxious about my collects and catechism, had an exalted opinion of her.

In public places her affection for me was always demonstrative.
In like manner she contrived conferences with my father.

She was always making excuses to consult him about my reading, and to confide in him her sufferings, as I learned, from my contumacy and temper.

The fact is, I was altogether quiet and submissive.