She must be disciplined to civility at all costs.
Max had been wrong to yield to her sick whims.
I must have sung for a long time, to judge by the amount of work I contrived to do, and if I had sung like a whole nestful of skylarks I could not have pleased my audience more.

I was sorry to set Miss Locke's tears flowing, because it hindered her work; tears are such a simple luxury, but poor folk cannot always afford to indulge in them.
I had just commenced that beautiful song, 'Waft her, angels, through the air,' when the impatient thumping of a stick on the floor arrested me; it came from Phoebe's room.
'I will go to her,' I said, waving Miss Locke back and picking up my flowers.

'Do not look so scared: she means those knocks for me.' And I was right in my surmise.

I found her lying very quietly, with the traces of tears still on her face; she addressed me quite gently.
'Do not sing any more, please; I cannot bear it; it makes my heart ache too much to-night.' 'Very well,' I returned cheerfully.

'I will just mend your fire, for it is getting low, and put these flowers in water, and then I will bid you good-night.' 'You are vexed with me for being rude,' she said, almost timidly.