“And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared. 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. And after that Alice became remoter than ever, and, after a time, ill.
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