"I told you the prison wasn't built that could hold me," cried Jack. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. 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 leaned forward and addressed him.
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