"Let him remain," interposed Trenchard. 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. The intoxicating sense of novelty had given place to a more business-like mood. I'm a stickler about clothes and clean chins.
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