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. He was staring at her, openly gaping. Nothing material occurred to Newgate, until the memorable year 1666, when it was utterly destroyed by the Great Fire. Michelle tossed her hair like a young colt flicking its tail.
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