Michelle looked at Lucy's feet, still in the ugly brown loafers she had worn since last year. After all, that was life. 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. That had shut him up for a while. “Ding-dong-Diedermayer is here, Lucy.
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