“I cannot part with you. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. In the pause a door could be heard opening and closing on the landing up-stairs. ’ ‘Tchah! Better a doubtful welcome here than a confounded French convent. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. Jackson’s. She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. “Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed.
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