A slow heavy thumping started up in Melusine’s chest, and she scarcely took in the astonished silence in those present in the room. 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. No; she'd never go back. ’ ‘Indeed, I’m beginning to think so,’ he said ruefully. ’ ‘What young lady?’ demanded a voice from the back of the hall. Martin managed to catch her after class the next day. ’ ‘Comment?’ she demanded with some heat. He was silent. ’ ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Back to Blaye, my girl. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. "I dare not, Rowland," she answered.
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