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“Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. I was stupid—stupid and impulsive beyond measure to burst upon you in this way. But let that verse tell my secret. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. 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. "You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth's father, Aliva," he said. It isn’t. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London.
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