There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. ’ A giggle answered him. I didn't understand then, but I do now. She did this to please him. That is very bad, certainly, and for this he was extremely sorry.
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