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. Simply. Vorsack echoed him. Later. "Here, take this and get the letter and open and read it. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents.
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