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 wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well. I’m sorry.
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