Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. ’ ‘The horse?’ echoed Melusine. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. One hour later she had gone back to the mission—without the salt. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York.
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