 Only now it's Quincy and Charles, and it appears the farm here in Braintree is failing, John. The chickens and geese have all died, and the apples never survived the late frost. How do you suppose she managed to get away? The winters are softer in Virginia. And their women, John? Fit for Virginians, madam, but pale, puny things beside New England girls. John, I thank you for that. How goes it with you, Abigail?