“Shut up, you little faggot. I offered myself as a clerk, as a milliner, as a shop girl. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. 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. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. "And yet, he has been spared thus long; perhaps with a wise purpose," rejoined Thames. ‘I have told you that I am entirely English. Or perhaps my father once.
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