He made some obvious comments on the wide view warming toward its autumnal blaze that spread itself in hill and valley, wood and village, below. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. I took him out of the hands of death. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars.
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