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But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. “I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. 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.
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