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 young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity. ” “NEVER!” Her heart sank at the change in his expression. There must be something we can do. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive.
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