We men are like children. " "Are you sure of that?" returned Winifred, looking uneasily at Jack. 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. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. “We pretend bodies are ugly. See paragraph 1. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive.
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