She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York.
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