A half-mile north from Jo. Dunfer's, on the road from Hutton's to
Mexican Hill, the highway dips into a sunless ravine which opens out on
either hand in a half-confidential manner, as if it had a secret to
impart at some more convenient season. I never used to ride through it
without looking first to the one side and then to the other, to see if
the time had arrived for the revelation. If I saw nothing -- and I never
did see anything -- there was no feeling of disappointment, for I knew
the disclosure was merely withheld temporarily for some good reason
which I had no right to question. That I should one day be taken into
full confidence I no more doubted than I doubted the existence of Jo.
Dunfer himself, through whose premises the ravine ran.