“That thing’s going on,” she told herself. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. 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. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. “You’ll be there, right?” She asked, hearing his breathing audibly jump. Hanging about! And they start thinking and asking questions, and begin to be neither one thing nor the other. Today you shall promise me that you will pull no more of these stunts.
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