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The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford. Gosse twisted his body to avoid another thrust, and the heavy candlesticks fell, rolling with a noise like thunder, and falling with a thud to the floor. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. “Wonderful man!” said Ann Veronica, reassured, and stroking his cheek with her finger. He roused curiosities. [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Corporation. ‘But a spy I am not.
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