For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. She laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. His eyes were bright with the hunt. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. Do you understand?’ ‘Aye, sir. On the way he confessed.
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