She had been careless. 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. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. He saw the tragedy on the boy's face; but he was merciless. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. —You've your answer, Blueskin," he added, pushing that individual, who seemed unwilling to depart, towards the door; "it's useless to urge the matter further.
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