" "That was my doing, dearest," urged the carpenter; "I was afraid if you saw her that some such scene as this might occur. Probably something he had eaten. 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. We felt like thieves. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings.
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