Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released. She silently willed him to stop his pacing, to calm down. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. 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. It’s not a bit of good pretending there’s any Higher Truth or wonderful principle in this business.
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