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. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable. ” He sighed. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. If the boy had done anything wrong back there in the States, his would be the brand of conscience to pay him out in full. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance.
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