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. It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. "Out of the twelve hundred subjects I've tucked up, I may safely place half to his account.
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