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. "Enough!" cried Jonathan, eagerly pocketing the memorandum. “Your teeth are chattering! I’ll make you some hot chocolate!” Cathy cried. There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical.
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