‘What mischief?’ ‘I don’t know, but I’ll go bail you’re at something. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. In one grave, mind. 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.
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