He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. ‘Jacques? Oh, that is news of the very finest. Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. Leonardo had not taught her to do so.
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