A girl—at my age—is grown-up. The mighty concourse became for a moment still. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. " "Hoddy," she repeated. I find you were excessively brave, mon pauvre.
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