"Enough," said the widow, gratefully. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. 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. I can't bear it. He unlocked himself from her embrace.
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