“Time for my Patience,” she said. But on this matter my mind is quite made up. " The foregoing conversation, having been conducted throughout in a low tone, and apart, had not reached the ears of Mr. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. His hand went with an almost instinctive inquiry to his jawbone again.
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