His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. “I MUST speak to you,” he said. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. Pennsylvania Dutch. ‘And, if this was not enough,’ went on the lady furiously, ‘you dare to say I am French.
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