Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. "What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. “Further than that, I am amazed that you should dare to allude to those few moments, to that single moment of folly. Tell her, that more than once, when about to commit some desperate offence, I have been restrained by her gentle image. “I can’t.
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