At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. . You get one, you get them all. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. Not fit to be dust on your boots. Kentish family.
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