For most of a long and fluctuating night she was fairly confident that she would find work; she knew herself to be strong, intelligent, and capable by the standards of most of the girls she knew. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed. Burn your palette and your easel. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes.
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