With great difficulty, Wood forced a path through the ruins. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. 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. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. “I thought much of it amazingly beautiful. Her nerves were shattered, her senses dazed by this unexpected shock. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. 4. How the devil did you break a picture?’ ‘Don’t be obtuse, Hilary.
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