One cannot trust any man at all. The oaken beam, nine inches in thickness, was now the sole but most formidable obstacle to his flight. “I can’t keep away from you. 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. Sebastian crouched on the floor with a single dead victim, a young highwayman. "Well, well; look who's here!" cried Spurlock.
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