She didn’t choose her man. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. Spurling, and her now accepted suitor, resumed their seats. You skulk in shadows, following an émigré. 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. But Ah Cum is widely known for his luck.
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