Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. No police officers or lurking storms were anywhere in sight. As soon, however, as the last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of his affliction.
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