Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. 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 clock struck half-past ten. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. “It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. I don’t know.
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