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 next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy. I could not hear his heart beat. ‘Aye, miss, like a shadow.
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