He concluded this sentence in so meek a manner that Everychild exclaimed indignantly, "I think it ought to be stopped. If I were you … did you ever try hiding her whip?"
The first daughter replied hopelessly, "We couldn't do that. Her whip … it's the kind of whip that grows, you understand."
"Some sort of limb?"
"You might call it that. But it's her own limb."
"Yes, if she got it first."
"She did. It's her hand."
"Do you mean," demanded Everychild, "that she whips all of you with her hand?"
"And does a thorough job, too," said the first daughter.
Everychild assumed a very grave air. "How often does this happen?" he asked.
"Every night," he was assured.