“Sir John of course disapproves of me,” she remarked slowly. "Do you not know me, father?" said the young man, advancing towards him, and warmly grasping his hand. He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees. On their left the river, with its gloomy pile of buildings on the opposite side, and a huge revolving advertisement throwing its strange reflection upon the black water. But at the beginning of the affray, when he thought every one was too much occupied with his own concerns to remark his absence, he slipped out of the room, not for the purpose of avoiding the engagement (for cowardice was not one of his failings), but because he had another object in view. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. “I want to be your friend,” he said.
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