“Well?” she said. Others are smart but fall prey to emotional damage, the female lunar instinct of cunning that goes awry. ‘You said she was beautiful. He—wanted to marry me. 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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