Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. 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. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. She was curious, and at the same time clearly resolved she must not hear it. “Do you want some of mine?” “Yes.
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