” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. "Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. 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. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. Something happened down there, and probably I'll never know what.
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