The boy was right. The lantern was on the ground inside, ready. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. 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. After all, why need one look down. Maggot.
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