She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. She addressed an envelope to Ramage, and scrawled on a half-sheet of paper, “The rest shall follow. This is your moment. ” She demanded. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth.
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