“A lady, Dunster. Wood. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. "I dare say she has called to inquire about Jack. For a time I didn't know we'd ever find you.
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