It was now a quarter past twelve. 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. "This is the gentleman," observed Jonathan, introducing Trenchard to the Hollander, "who is about to intrust his young relation to your care. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. And you will. You must let me do whatever I can for you. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter.
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