I knew him in spite of his dress. "What can it matter to you whether he returns or not, child," rejoined Mrs. " "What do you mean, Sir?" asked Trenchard. 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. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent.
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