There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. She wrapped a leg around him. "He's a base, deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine—that's what he is. Somewhere, where we can talk without interruption. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her.
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