Your mother is a dear woman, George, but she knows nothing of the world of commerce and politics. In here next to the fire it is warm and comfortable, but out there it is cold and bitter. A man must use his wits and his wiles to survive. If I had managed my estates in the light of truth we would be living on a patch of weeds in the backwaters of the river. The truth is a poor man's shackle, George.
Truth is the enemy of a good bargain.
George scratched his head, not fully understanding his father. He turned toward his mother who was weaving beside a row of candles. Let me make myself perfectly clear, George. The tree was mine. It made me angry to see my lawn so defoliated.