She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. His guardian angel warned Spurlock to speak carefully.
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