‘Do you think I do not know? What am I doing here, do you think?’ ‘That’s just exactly what I’ve been asking myself,’ he returned. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. 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. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment. Though he never seen so much of Miss Mary as I did.
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