"You'd have hit it off better if you'd called her The Sow. 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. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. I offer you my assistance on certain terms. Simply.
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