CHAPTER XVIII. She recoiled. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ” Cathy ruffled Lucy’s curly hair.
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