There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat. His mind seemed to be a remarkably full one; his knowledge of detailed reality came in just where her own mind was most weakly equipped. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky.
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