What was his problem, she thought to herself. 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. "A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. That Frenchie, that’s who she is. You have to see her to understand. She could not help but swoon a little.
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