The mystery was the only thing which gave me pain, especially on the part of the old woman, who moreover daily became more parasitical and flattering towards me.

This, however, did not prevent her from reproaching her daughter in private with telling me everything, and loving me too much, observing to her she was a fool and would at length be made a dupe.
This woman possessed, to a supreme degree, the art of multiplying the presents made her, by concealing from one what she received from another, and from me what she received from all.

I could have pardoned her avarice, but it was impossible I should forgive her dissimulation.

What could she have to conceal from me whose happiness she knew principally consisted in that of herself and her daughter?
What I had done for the daughter I had done for myself, but the services I rendered the mother merited on her part some acknowledgment.

She ought, at least, to have thought herself obliged for them to her daughter, and to have loved me for the sake of her by whom I was already beloved.