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. "All I want is to be happy!" she said aloud, as if she were asking for something of such ordinary value that God would readily accord it to her because there was so little demand for the commodity. ” “Anything except that,” he murmured. So I ran away, blindly, knowing nothing of the world outside. Shortly afterwards,—it seemed an age to the anxious mother,—Mr. He stood transfixed. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer.
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