"I will restore the volume, mademoiselle." She did restore it accordingly, with the historical narratives cut out, and many nods and grimaces expressive of her good wishes that we might be satisfied with it now.
In private, Eleanor stamped with indignation (whether or no her thick boots had fostered this habit I can't say, but Eleanor was apt to stamp on occasion).

We had our dear chapters again, however, and I promised Eleanor a new and fine copy of the mutilated favourite as a birthday present.
Eleanor was very good to me.

She helped me with my lessons, and encouraged me to work.

For herself, she laboured harder and harder.
I used to think that she was only anxious to get all the good she could out of the school, as she did not seem to have many so-called "advantages" at home, by her own account.

But I afterwards found that she did just the same everywhere, strained her dark eyes over books, and absorbed information whenever and wherever she had a chance.
"I can't say you're fond of reading," said Emma one day, watching Eleanor as she sat buried in a book, "for I'm fond of reading myself, and we're not at all alike.