There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. ‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. "Remember the devil!" retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural audacity. He had become an extremely handsome man, his hair having darkened and his shoulders having realized their full size. Her stomach growled, and she clutched at it in reaction, haphazardly observing that the gown had been changed to silk.
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