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. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. But he knew. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. Dear me! if there isn't his knock. “No, I must have had hope lurking somewhere too. "Right," said the Master, "I didn't think of her.
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