There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. “Home, of course,” she answered. I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. She slipped it calmly into her pocket. " "Afraid?" "Yes. ’ ‘Ah, but there’s the little matter of your presence here,’ said Gerald on a note of apology.
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