"But, pardon my intrusion. 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. Earles answered, glibly. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. ” “I’ve never heard Tristan and Isolde. Would you tell her … now?" his eyes flaming with mockery. “Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois.
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