The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. "If you'll write them, I'll illustrate them," observed Hogarth. Then Melusine jumped back into the fencer’s pose, on guard, the point of the wicked blade directed towards her enemy. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered.
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