Melusine cast one swift glance at it, and her eyes, flashing magnificently, came back to his face. 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. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. You don't want people to snub you later.
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