‘Ah, Madame Joan. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder. My mother really wants to meet you. 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. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road.
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