Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. ” “Change that to most, at least from my experience.
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