“Not too bad. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. "How is the patient?" he asked. Perhaps Ramage was the more astonished. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. ’ ‘Have no fear.
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