“Will you help me?” he asked. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. The law would accord her all her previous rights: she would return to the exact status out of which in his madness he had taken her. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated.
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