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Fyodor Dostoevsky
Alyosha,” she murmured again, “look out the door, see if mama is eavesdropping.” “Very well, Lise, I will look, only wouldn’t it be better not to look? Why suspect your mother of such meanness?” “Meanness? What meanness? That she’s eavesdropping on her daughter is her right, it’s not meanness,” Lise flared up. “And you may rest assured, Alexei Fyodorovich, that when I myself am a mother and have a daughter like me, I shall certainly eavesdrop on her.” “Really, Lise? That’s not good.” “Oh, my God, what’s mean about it? If it were an ordinary social conversation and I eavesdropped,
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