‘Gérard is not mad, only of a disposition entirely interfering. One of the coolies held the paper lantern. ‘And I wouldn’t be no sort of a man if I’d heard what I heard, and gone off and left you. ‘Why did you kiss me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Gerald admitted. 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. She stared at his pleading face. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman.
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