In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. 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. "The night before last, Mr. ” “Fame!” “Isn’t it? ‘I’ve not seen your play, Mr. You are yet a child; and though you have strayed from the right path, a stronger hand than your own has led you thence. ‘You are there.
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