Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. They exchanged greetings with the clarinetist. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other.
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