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. Beyond the hatch, an angle, formed by a projection in the wall of some three or four feet, served to hide a door conducting to the interior of the prison. His initial nervousness had already abated, and it took some valour to allow himself to become embroiled in Melusine’s crazy schemes. His fingers closed upon her hand.
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