” For a time she sat on a rail before leaving the road for the downland turf. “If I do,” he said. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. ‘Why, what have I said?’ ‘You said to me my name. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. But it looked as if the boy was not going to be of much use.
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