Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “He would never have found you out if you had not personated me. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books.
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