It had been her home for hundreds of years. Gianfrancesco had been talked into the arrangement only because the drivers that had handled the job for generations were sick or dead. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle. ‘And it is me you dare accuse? It is yourself you should arrest. 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. " "We shall see," rejoined Jonathan, turning carelessly upon his heel. Hill closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. His voice had broken.
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