This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Two shots were fired, and presently the clashing of swords was heard below. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth.
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