” Lucy snickered. 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. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard.
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