Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was,
perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the
desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. Then
one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,”
and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the
words penetrated to her understanding. 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. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took
up a glass. She rose at once with a little
exclamation, half of surprise, half of pleasure. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a
Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. Suddenly, she heard the crunch of new feet on the
gravel. She came along with the fluttering
assurance of some tall ship. Entering London, he bent his way towards the west-end; and having some
knowledge of a secondhand tailor's shop in Rupert Street, proceeded thither, and
looked out a handsome suit of mourning, with a sword, cloak, and hat, and
demanded the price.
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This video was uploaded to indienet.info on 02-07-2024 08:32:34