" "Ay, and there's my liver. Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. 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 no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect.
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