“I am developing ailments,” she said, meeting his questioning eyes. 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. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. “Home, of course,” she answered. Laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, now.
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