‘What a catalogue. 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. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak. A fortnight passed, then a month. Jack hastily retreated, and taking the first means of concealment that occurred to him, descended the cellar steps. “Yes, I know. That is what I’ve had on my conscience.
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