There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. Her personal maidservant, the first she had ever had in her life, was joyful for her. 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. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. Lucia confined herself to her quarters, wondering when they would flee to the country as so many other houses had done. ‘Hadn’t meant you to know,’ said the nun gruffly. You don’t have to live forever to understand that.
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