“Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. The man was thick set, with a bright roving eye. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. Through that she had to go. A white man takes his life in his hands.
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