“What can one say?” she exclaimed. "Sir Rowland must be gone. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. He seemed to her indistinguishably about her father’s age. You are alone in the world, you have no one save yourself to consider. Our ideal had fallen.
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