It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. He was into the passage in time to see her slip into another chamber at the end. Presently repellance grew under the frozen mask of astonishment and dissipated it.
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