“Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. 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. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. For a time she worried about that compulsory bath and cutaneous diseases. "Good night, Master. He rose at once to his feet and turned a white face upon her. Youth finds it pleasant sometimes to be melancholy. But to live at peace with your neighbour….
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