\"Thanks for coming. . Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. That was the only sound he heard. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. “If I do,” he said. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. At this juncture, a cry burst from the child, who, nearly smothered by the weight imposed upon him, only recovered the use of his lungs as Wood altered the position of the bundle. But we were both pledged to secrecy, and I couldn’t reveal my part for fear that I would lose my place. May I know your name?’ The lady eyed him.
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