At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. He recalled with exasperating perplexity her clear, matter-of-fact tone as she talked about love-making being unconvincing. 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. From a bi-secting street came shouting and music. "I've spoken.
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