The major hailed him with a show of relief. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. 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. The last observation, however, caught the attention of the carpenter's wife. ’ She dropped to her knees before her old nurse and hugged the workroughened hand with both her own, looking up into Martha’s face where slow tears were tracing down her cheek. Charcoal. It must be somewhere hereabouts.
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