Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. 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. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. Let alone a girl. Believe me, it will be better by far that you should consent to marry me. ’ ‘I didn’t bring him,’ Gerald returned swiftly. "Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine.
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