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 destroyed her clumsily made dolls whenever he found them. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. CHAPTER XXXI. But you had better know the truth to start with. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it.
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