Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. "The same as a Japanese geisha girl. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully.
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