Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. Kneebone, his impertinence was copied to the letter by Solomon. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly.
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