The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. Finally, at the exit into Regent’s Park, they ran against Miss Klegg. Not only that, but he carried himself erect— the slight slouch which had bent his shoulders had altogether disappeared. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. 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. “Mary! What’s going on! Why are you crying?!” He commanded an answer in a worried and slightly irritated tone. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. ‘Jacques, you have been very much my friend. Norris.
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