“Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. The carpenter threw himself flat upon the starling to avoid the fury of the wind. He described her privately to himself as a splendid girl. The man Hill has persecuted me for months—ever since I have been in England.
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