“I can tell you are thinking about it. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. “I am bored,” she said abruptly. Never again to be alone! To fit herself into this man's life as a hand into a glove; to use all her skill to force him into the position of depending upon her utterly; to be the spark to the divine fire! He should have his book, even if it had to be written with her heart's blood. But his lips were honourlocked. She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost. Then you may have a bit of a chance. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. It had been a part of the vast domain of the servants in the house’s earlier incarnation. You told me he was going back to Newgate after supper, so I mayn't have another opportunity.
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