I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. “Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. What might it have been?’ Mrs Sindlesham shook her head helplessly. He was disquieted. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. Nevertheless, she could not prevent a rising excitement as the dawn of the new life drew near to her—a thrilling of the nerves, a secret and delicious exaltation above the common circumstances of existence.
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