Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. "If you thought that, why did you give me this job?"—his voice faint and thick. The only departure which he made from the fashion of the period, was in respect to the peruke—an article he could never be induced to wear. You fell in at once with her quixotic and damnable scheme of foisting her reputation and her follies upon your shoulders whilst she marries a rich man and commences all over again a life of selfish pleasure. She made up her mind in the train home that it should be a decisive crisis.
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