It was in fact the first embrace of motherhood she had ever known. All four people moved a little nervously into the drawing-room, maintaining a sort of fluttered amiability of sound and movement. A little within stood a second door, or rather wicket, lower than the first, but of equal strength, and surmounted by a row of sharp spikes. “Because I hate you!” She spat. “You are in trouble,” he said. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners.
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