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. ‘But I don’t trust you an inch. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery.
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