But for me it doesn’t matter. You never saw him before yesterday. “I’ve got it. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “Did you see who that was?” he asked in a low tone. 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. Then he took the pulse. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. “This is my way back to my side of the Park,” she said. “Your great success has been my joy, our joy as well as yours. You do not need my compliments.
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