‘I doubt it. At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart with a powerful black horse harnessed to it. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence. Together they made their painful way to the door, not even checking, in the effort this cost both, on what Gosse might be doing.
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