“Your sex is a terrible fraud. 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. She was no longer there. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. “Well,” he said at last slowly, “I’ll pay it. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment.
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