I have known Miss Pellissier as long as any of you perhaps, and I have seen something of her since her arrival in London. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead.
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