“I—I didn’t love the man I was engaged to,” she said. She could not help herself. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. Stanley considered. The latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair. Very likely by this time the whole truth is known. If only we are not divided. Without betraying the slightest confusion, or making a single remark, he quietly resumed his seat. “It’s precious unromantic. A pretty piece. He was roused from the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who roared in his ear, "The bridge!—the bridge!" CHAPTER VII.
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