She must not tell Martha about Gerald. ‘I have an arthritic complaint, which is why you find me retired from fashionable life. 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. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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