It had been another great vintage in the south, and Bordeaux was more than usually busy when Barebone arrived there, at daybreak, one morning in November, having posted from Toulouse.

He was more daring in winter, and went fearlessly through the streets.

In cold weather it is so much easier for a man to conceal his identity; for a woman to hide her beauty, if she wish to--which is a large If.

Barebone could wear a fur collar and turn it up round that tell-tale chin, which made the passer-by pause and turn to look at him again if it was visible.
He breakfasted at the old-fashioned inn in the heart of the town, where to this day the diligences deposit their passengers, and then he made his way to the quay, from whence he would take passage down the river.
It was a cold morning, and there are few colder cities, south of Paris, than Bordeaux.

Barebone hurried, his breath frozen on the fur of his collar.