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XIII.
An Auto-da-fé.
THE days went pleasantly by, and it began to seem so natural to be in Colorado that I could almost understand Ned Randall's preferring opulence there to penury in New York. Almost, but not quite. Every little while a Pow-wow letter would strike a chord, or an item in a New York paper would break the spell, and I would find my thoughts reverting fondly to a certain dingy old den in the midst of the hubbub, and I knew that I should be ready enough to return to my native pavingstones when the time came.
