" "There it is;" replied the other, tossing him the glove. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. 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. I put my foot down like—like adamant. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. .
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