Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature. 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. “I am going to ignore it. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. She could not go to him when it was apparent that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this agony did not matter—then. .
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