Old Newgate. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. 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 can do without it," muttered Jack.
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