The perception of him flooded her being. She slid the dress off, naked underneath. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. “It’s a flabby, loose-willed world we have to face. "I have it too!" exclaimed Hogarth, busily plying his pencil. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands.
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