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“Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. "Harkye, Sir," rejoined Darrell; "one word before I move.
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