Once in England, she made all haste to visit Remenham House. Sheila, a normally sound sleeper, woke one night to find both her husband and her foster daughter had snuck from their beds, and this infuriated her. “You certainly got him in the bag. Well, they’d got to the pheasants, and in a little while he would smoke. Cathy answered the phone. She loved him. 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. “I believe it is.
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