There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. ’ ‘Ain’t it? Want me to give you some time with her? Not that I think she’ll tell you anything. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him.
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