The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. His technique had gained much subtlety over the years. 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. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. Perhaps it was loneliness.
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