Mamma is a dear good affectionate soul; but she and I don't understand each other.

I don't care for her twittering little birds, and she doesn't care for my whims and fancies.

I have read novels until I am tired.

I am not allowed to go out by myself, and mamma can scarcely walk to Kensington-gardens without sinking under the exertion.
We drive out sometimes; but I am sick to death of crawling slowly up and down by the Serpentine staring at people's bonnets.

I might enjoy it, perhaps, if I had you with me to make fun out of some of the bonnets.