Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them. I bent over him. There he was, standing with a group of men who she presumed to be the other richest men in the world. I am a single man, and——” “Thank you,” she interrupted. This man’s name is Montague Hill.
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