The major’s hand stilled. Hoddy. ‘Well, shan’t I come to the major’s house up Stratton Street, sir?’ ‘I’ll give the major your report, Trodger. In the little apartment, under the gas chandelier, his inches and his stoop were certainly very effective. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. The doctor laughed. 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.
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