“I suppose most people’s letters are queer. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. That dress is thirty years old, if a day. Home!— which I never hoped to see again. That had shut him up for a while. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. "Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch. By this time, Jack's reputation had risen to such a height with the populace,—his exploits having become the universal theme of discourse, that the streets were almost impassable for the crowds collected to obtain a view of him.
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