Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. See? Nothing really. The Chinamen raised the limp body and carried it to the hall staircase, up which they mounted laboriously. Everything seemed designed to unhinge the mind and make the cat wretched. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne.
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