Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. “I wish he had,” 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. Their future would be glorious; he saw it in their eyes; he saw it in the beauty of their young heads.
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