Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Suddenly he felt Ruth swing violently away from him, and he wheeled to learn the cause.
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