“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. " And he proceeded to unfold his scheme to the woollen-draper. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. Then there was also the horse. The situation bothered him considerably. 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.
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