CHAPTER XXXII. She found him reclined, watching television in a small guest room hidden in a back wing of the massive house. He threw the doctor out of the Palazzo on his rear, sending him to the insane plague-infested streets. 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. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. With this view, he suffered him to pass on. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told.
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