There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. She cried out his name in ecstasy. Spurling, and her now accepted suitor, resumed their seats. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it. “Sure, but it’s not like you’re married, you know.
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