It has come,—and sooner than you expected. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. "'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. “My dear Anna! As though I should think of depressing you with my long list of misdeeds. " "Murder him!" cried Trenchard shuddering. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. I have brought disgrace upon you, and I haven’t been the right sort of wife at all.
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