The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. “Did you see who that was?” he asked in a low tone. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York.
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