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. " Not many days after this event, on a bright October morning, the bells rang a merry peal from the old gray tower of Willesden church. She sings better perhaps. " "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing.
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