It was Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows. 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. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. They are often to be found dashing about secret passages in strange houses, armed to the teeth. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror.
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