Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. "My sister the wife of one condemned felon! the parent of another! It cannot be. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. “You won’t give me away, Anna. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. Her heartbeat quickened.
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