There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. 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. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. ‘That’s just it. Jonathan Wild and his bloodhounds, with a hundred others, incited by the reward, will be upon my track. I can get that at the bar," the manager said, curtly.
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