This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. You are all that I am or hope to be—the celestial atom God put into me at the beginning. ’ ‘But I have told you not,’ she protested. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration.
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