Ann Veronica stared at his foolish, propitiatory smile, his hungry gaze, through one moment of amazement, then stepped aside and went on her way with a quickened step. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. You’re mine. . 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. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child.
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