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. And if you’ve any notion—’ ‘Yes, it is upstairs,’ Melusine agreed, crossing to the library door. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. That was supposed to be Madame Valade. Her lips were dry and cracked. Tell her, that more than once, when about to commit some desperate offence, I have been restrained by her gentle image.
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