‘Oh, I do love a flatterer. Don’t go back into Victorian respectability and pretend you don’t know and you can’t think and all the rest of it. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. I’m going to tell you things plainly. Her mouth lolled open and drool seeped down one corner. 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. Bête, she told herself fiercely. The afternoon had passed now into twilight. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. \"You cannot know how frustrated I have become. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids. I have unfinished business. “But I am your husband,” he said. ’ His colour deepened.
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