“I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. 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. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea.
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