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’ Then memory hit and he stared at his friend. "Where did you learn the song I heard just now?" he demanded, in an authoritative tone. It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. It was so difficult to put precisely. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony.
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