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. “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. Against the walls hung an assortment of staves, brown-bills, (weapons then borne by the watch,) muskets, handcuffs, great-coats, and lanterns. Jack was lying so still, for a moment she panicked. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him.
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