There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. CHAPTER XXVII His idea, cleverly planned, was to shatter her resistance, to confound her suddenly by striking her mind with words which would rob her coherent thought. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. “Perhaps for myself I do not mind, but this man is sure to find out some day, and he will not like having been deceived.
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