But Gerald kept to a casual note. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. When she looked into their eyes, her despair put her beyond tears. “I am fairly well known here. 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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