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Updated: May 3, 2025
Her face was the color of chalk, her eyes were closed. With a cry, Grace fell on her knees beside the unconscious girl and with trembling fingers felt her heart. The clerk, a weak-faced young man, stood gazing at the scene before him in amazed horror. "She isn't dead!" Grace exclaimed, turning an excited face to him. "Her heart is still beating. Send for a doctor, quick!"
The young man who has just been crowned at Moscow at an expense of some millions, and whose emblem of authority is ornamented with rubies as large as eggs and ablaze with 2,564 costly diamonds while half his people are feeding on fetid offal is a weak-faced pigmy who would probably be peddling Russia's favorite drunk promoter over a pine bar had he not chanced to be born in the purple.
The man was weak-faced, with good looks sallowed by dissipation, and a vanquished glance of the eye. As the woman had stood on the platform at Separ, so she sat now, upright, bold, and massive. The brag of past beauty was a habit settled upon her stolid features. Both sat inattentive to each other and to everything around them.
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