He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. “You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked. "Come," said Wild, turning authoritatively to Jack,—"you have overstayed your time. You are restless, aggressive, critical with all the crude unthinking criticism of youth. Annabel watched her with wide-open, terrified eyes. 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.
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