Once safely penned into one of its deep corners, it was
like a dentist's chair, not too easy to get out of again. Here she could
get at him better to pull him about, if this should seem desirable, or if
she thought fit to cry she could bury her head in the sofa cushion and
abandon herself to an agony of grief which seldom failed of its effect.
None of her favourite manoeuvres were so easily adopted in her usual
seat, the arm-chair on the right hand side of the fireplace, and so well
did her son know from his mother's tone that this was going to be a sofa
conversation that he took his place like a lamb as soon as she began to
speak and before she could reach the sofa herself.
"My dearest boy," began his mother, taking hold of his hand and placing
it within her own, "promise me never to be afraid either of your dear
papa or of me; promise me this, my dear, as you love me, promise it to
me," and she kissed him again and again and stroked his hair. But with
her other hand she still kept hold of his; she had got him and she meant
to keep him.
The lad hung down his head and promised. What else could he do?
"You know there is no one, dear, dear Ernest, who loves you so much as
your papa and I do; no one who watches so carefully over your interests
or who is so anxious to enter into all your little joys and troubles as
we are; but my dearest boy, it grieves me to think sometimes that you
have not that perfect love for and confidence in us which you ought to
have.
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