" Ideas are never born; they are suggested; they are planted seeds. 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. He'd have enough to do to protect himself, without attending to you. “Dear me!” he said. He suspected a trap.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 12-08-2024 14:53:11
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