She answered him almost coldly. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. O'Higgins mounted the stairs, his step extraordinarily light for one so heavy. 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. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. Half a minute, Vee.
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