"'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. To be no longer with Martha was strange. Every now and then her general presence became radiantly dazzling in his eyes; she would appear in the street coming toward him, a surprise, so fine and smiling and welcoming was she, so expanded and illuminated and living, in contrast with his mere expectation. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. Sometimes they marry well.
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