Pause. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. This young man, whose features, though rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness.
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