There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. " "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English. The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild.
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