There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. The vicomte must be well known to those high-born who have gone to England. I do not know anything of him since I have fourteen years, and that he sent me to Blaye to be a nun. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. " "Where did he get it?" inquired Wood, in surprise.
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