ely come to sign thevisitors' book, but he said: You are Americans, are you not? Yes, we are Americans. After all, Mark Twain's work wasnot for the cultivated class. This had been early in April. The butts of thebilliard cues came down on the floor with a bump, and for a moment theplayers were speechless.
Louis, and he was met atthe train there by his old river instructor and friend, Horace Bixby--asfresh, wiry, and capable as he had been forty-five years before. One readingthem would not find it easy to believe that the writer was a man on whoseshoulders lay the burdens of stupendous finance-burdens so heavy that atlast he was crushed beneath their weight. Then came the great night of his seventiethbirthday dinner, with an opportunity to thank him in person for the useof the letters. ll hear his deliberate speech--always deliberate, saveat rare intervals; always impressive, whatever the subject might be;w
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