"If you'll write them, I'll illustrate them," observed Hogarth. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. “I mean REALLY independent. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him.
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