Cathy Beck was outraged. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. “Just look that through, will you. The attempt was unsuccessful. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them.
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