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. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. Arrived in the plantation she sat down with her back against a tree trunk. Her mind wandered back to that fateful day. “Shit happens, John.
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