She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. 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. He wants you—or he doesn’t; and then he helps some other woman against you. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control.
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