“It’s—private. Each time a daughter had been born to him he had concealed his chagrin with great tenderness and effusion from his wife, and had sworn unwontedly and with passionate sincerity in the bathroom. And Mother trusted him. Through the gloom he distinctly perceived the dome of St. Hill lost a little of his truculency. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. I take it, down where we're going will be nothing new to you.
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