It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. . 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. You are—horrible. Once more he was the searcher. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America.
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