The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. Manning, with a sweep of the arm. You got my note?” “I certainly received a note,” Anna admitted. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. And this clear-visioned child had comprehended that only half the rogues were really ill. In after years you can return to your own country—to your friends. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. ’ ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but I think as how you ought to go back to London,’ Jack ventured.
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