There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage. . I'm his lieutenant,—Lieutenant Blueskin. I hated him. CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering.
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