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But she did not bother her head very much about her relations with these sympathizers. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. And I want you for myself—for my wife. 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. Pitt endeavoured to dissuade him from attending in person, representing the great risk he would incur from the mob, which was certain to be assembled.
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