"You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. "Patience Kite has lured him to Enfield on a false scent after Blueskin. Why do you not go away?’ ‘Yes, do go away,’ begged Gerald. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. Wild in his own domain. I didn’t believe him and I said so.
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