All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. 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 old lady’s face was stiff with anger. My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf.
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