Mr. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. It was bare of any furnishings. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray.
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