Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. His little doll. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. Sheppard. ” The idea struck him as novel. “No.
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