Oh, nonsense and rubbish. Whole shelves of mysteries and adventures—and a hidden trove of romances that stretch the boundaries of good taste, where the eleven children could not find them. Or where we could all pretend they had not found them. Of course they would. Children are clever.

[ Barely paying attention to what he's saying, because share a bed and actually sleep is such a simple thing to want. And he sympathizes.

But they're talking about happy things. ]

And once I had finished them all, a new crate every month.

Would you come visit me?