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. "I'll place it to your account, Sir Rowland," answered the thief-taker, smiling significantly. The doorman replied, tipping his cap, “I don’t speak much Italian these days, not since my mother died.
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