“Dear me, what a relief! If I had had any nerves that man would have trampled upon them long ago. ‘Certainly this is true,’ she managed. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. As to his mother, I've no pity for her. 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.
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