There are a thousand questions I'd like to ask you, but I sha'n't ask them. 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. Daughters were in the air that day. On the north stood the battlements of one of the towers of the gate. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. When I learned you were married, I changed my plans.
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