The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Queens and Kings, as always, were made to be manipulated.
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