The fact that their children, especially their daughters, were so discreet that not one (to speak in a good hour and be silent in a bad!) had as yet ever (far be it from the speaker to think of such a thing!) given birth to a bastard, as was known to happen in other places--this was the crowning point of their joy and exultation. It even made up to them for the other fact, that they never got a good word from their husbands for their hard, unnatural toil. And as they chat together, throwing in the remark that "the apple never falls far from the tree," that their daughters take after them in everything, the very wrinkles vanish from their shrivelled faces, a spring of refreshment and blessedness wells up in their hearts, they are lifted above their cares, a feeling of relaxation comes over them, as though a soothing balsam had penetrated their strained and weary limbs. Meantime the daughters have secrets among themselves. They know a quantity of interesting things that have happened in their quarter, but no one else gets to know of them; they are imparted more with the eyes than with the lips, and all is quiet and confidential. And if the great calamity had not now befallen the Pidvorkes, had it not stretched itself, spread its claws with such an evil might, had the shame not been so deep and dreadful, all might have passed off quietly as always. But the event was so extraordinary, so cruelly unique--such a thing had not happened since girls were girls, and bridegrooms, bridegrooms, in the Pidvorkes--that it inevitably became known to all. Not (preserve us!) to the men--they know of nothing, and need to know of nothing--only to the women. But how much can anyone keep to oneself? It will rise to the surface, and lie like oil on the water.