It was only before Rodney that the pretense
was necessary. And with him, really, it was hardly a pretense at all. He
was such a child himself, in his gleeful delight over the possession of
a son and a daughter, that she felt for him, tenderly, mistily,
luminously, the very emotion she was trying to capture for them--felt
like cradling his head in her weak arms, kissing him, crying over him a
little.
She wouldn't have been allowed to do that to the babies anyway. They
were going to be terribly well brought up, those twins; that was
apparent from the beginning. They had two nurses all to themselves,
quite apart from Miss Harris, who looked after Rose: one uncannily
infallible person, omniscient in baby lore--thoroughgoing, logical,
efficient, remorseless as a German staff officer; and a bright-eyed,
snub-nosed, smart little maid, for an assistant, who boiled bottles,
washed clothes, and, at certain stated hours, over a previously
determined route, at a given number of miles per hour, wheeled the twins
out, in a duplex perambulator, which Harriet had acquired as soon as the
need for it had become evident.
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