"Thus," replied the prize-fighter. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. “What are you doing?” He cried. I am the richest man in the world. Would there be enough in the young man's envelope to pay the doctor and the hotel bill—and in the event of his death, enough to ship the body home? So all things pointed to the happy circumstance of setting this young fool upon his feet again, of seeing him hence upon his journey.
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