So he was forced to shift and proceed at another angle, forgetting his promise to McClintock to be temperate. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. 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. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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