Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. I care not. Not so bad. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth.
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