‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. Come along, master. One is always familiar with the business of one’s neighbours. 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. At any rate she must see me. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. “Cheveney!” she repeated.
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