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. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain. Sampans with fish and fruit and vegetables swarmed about, while overhead gulls wheeled and swooped and circled. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. She tried to think what she should do in this eventuality or that. So I ran away, blindly, knowing nothing of the world outside. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. Wood. Ireton and his friends to taste it. It’s Providence.
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