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. It doesn't matter that you deal with black people. His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. Her pulses began to race. Soon, they fattened up, their cheeks rosy and their hair shining.
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