” He smiled at the naiveté of her suggestion. Wood hadn't struck me. Very well, I give up. He looked at her, hurt. Byby. ’ ‘He let them go?’ asked Miss Froxfield incredulously. 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. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice.
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