I can vouch for that. Manning called. 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. “What the devil are you doing star-gazing here?” Ennison looked at him in surprise. . . ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés.
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