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. She turned there and beckoned. The only inconvenience I feel from my shattered noddle is an incapacity to drink. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive.
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