This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. Anna went out. I wasn’t. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. “Yes, I remember,” she said. It was long and narrow, with a ceiling supported by huge uncovered rafters, and so low as scarcely to allow a tall man like himself to stand erect beneath it. She pulled her hand away quickly.
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