As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. 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. A wrathful God was watching him. The black clad students streamed slowly to their positions carrying their instruments like offerings to the pilgrimage. Later, there will be fever, after I've got his heart pumping. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. To perdition with them all.
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