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. " "What for?" demanded the turnkey. I did what I could to comfort her but she died in terrible pain. There’s no family uniting instinct, anyhow; it’s habit and sentiment and material convenience hold families together after adolescence. You go cheer him up.
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