It must be the dawn creeping in. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. “It’s the centre of the intellectuals. After encountering other dangers, and being twice, compelled to fling himself flat upon his face to avoid slipping from the wet and slimy pathway, he was at length about to emerge from the lock, when, to his inexpressible horror, he found he had lost the child! All the blood in his veins rushed to his heart, and he shook in every limb as he made this discovery. "You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. Just as Hogarth got to the door, the turnkey stopped him.
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