He is a knight. "Don't fire," cried the latter. By this action, Lucy already knew what the answer was. There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. 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. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. Part of her felt like laughing insanely at how badly she had been duped.
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