He did not spend more time with her. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. Her fingers rested upon his. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. She recoiled. Reaching the panel, she was able with the aid of her lantern to find the lever at once.
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