Now if you are ready to go with me, I too am ready. You are my prisoner, murderer. She remembered abruptly that she was really living upon his money. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York.
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