If you knew anything about Canton ware, you were, as like as not, sorely tempted to stuff a teacup into your pocket. "Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery," cried the Jew. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. She spoke with fluent enthusiasm. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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