The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive. He suspected a trap. ” She felt, with a sudden horror, that she might weep. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. When they reached her rooms she stepped lightly out upon the pavement. He temporized, and the girl raised her eyes once more to his. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. Amongst other things, he had just brought down an old laced bavaroy, a species of surtout much worn at the period. She did not realize that she was offering criticisms. "Come along, my sly shaver. Interrogation takes many forms, you know, Lucy.
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