From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. That is the age when Sebastianus took me for his bride. 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. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive.
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