Jack was not half your age when he died. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent's commission. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. She would never, never go back. The floor was thickly strewn with sawdust and shavings; and across the room ran a long and wide bench, furnished at one end with a powerful vice; next to which three nails driven into the boards served, it would appear from the lump of unconsumed tallow left in their custody, as a substitute for a candlestick. Sir John followed me to London and married me. We've made a pretty penny by him—sixty guineas this blessed day.
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