I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. It was a moment of breathless interest to all engaged in the attempt. It was free of leering men, unthinkable punishments, and human evil. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. "There's my answer!" rejoined Wild, hurling the bludgeon at him, with such fatal effect, that striking him on the head it brought him instantly to the ground. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered.
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