Her eye met Miss Stanley’s understandingly, and she was if anything a trifle more affectionate in her greeting to Ann Veronica. She had never imagined life was half so sinister as it looked to her in the beginning of these investigations. That Mr. ‘Home?’ ‘To your family. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. It’s no good. His frowning gaze came back to her. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. 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.
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