It must be dreadful for you, Sir Roland.

I sympathize so much with you.

I never quite lose sight of your troubles.

I do not know that there could possibly be a greater one." At first my father would laugh, and say gently: "Ah, yes, there could be one--it would be so much worse if my dear wife had died." But after a time he began to shake his head gravely as she shook hers, and sigh as he answered: "Ah, yes, it is a terrible infliction." If any little domestic unpleasantness occurred, a thing by Sir Roland's desire always kept from my mother, she would look so kindly at him.
"Dear Sir Roland, how tiresome all this is for you.

I wonder you are so patient." Could my mother help it, I cried to myself with passionate tears; was it her fault that she was stricken and helpless; ought this woman to speak to my father about it as though he were the sufferer?
The tears that fell from my eyes blinded me; thus I had to go to my lessons, my heart torn with its sense of injury and resentment against the one who seemed to me my mother's enemy, I knew not why.
Again, if there was a question about any visitors, and my father seemed at a loss for a few minutes, she would say: "How painful it is for you, Sir Roland, to be troubled in this fashion; can I do anything to help you ?" Or it would be, "How sorry I am to see you teased about such trifles, Sir Roland; can I manage it for you ?" The same when he received invitations: before now it had seemed at least almost a pleasure to decline them.