“What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. It was on the night of the Great Storm that I found him. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Laying these carefully aside, he restored the drawer to its place. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. Just my room. “Delicious!” she murmured. " "Both are dead," observed the knight, gloomily. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. Wood scarcely knew where he was.
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