Jests are not for seasons like this. CHAPTER V At dinner the spinsters invited Ruth to sit at their table, an invitation she accepted gratefully. She sings better perhaps. 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 place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it. I thought that you were he.
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