Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. From his pale skin and inky hair color it was apparent that his ancestry was half-Hispanic and half-European, perhaps French. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances.
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