Next moment, she had shut the bookshelf panel upon him. ” “You are jealous,” she declared contemptuously. 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 fact is—I don’t know why—this takes me by surprise. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally.
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