He did not spend more time with her. ’ ‘Who was to know if you would find your place?’ countered Martha. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. 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. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. Sir John felt hot and furious.
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