“Love should be enough, John, but it never is. 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. That ring manifestly occupied her thoughts a great deal. The night was now profoundly dark. . ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. ’ She sniffed and swallowed. I can get into my clothes. The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. .
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