“Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. That is the dreadful truth. At length, after he had given up the point from sheer exhaustion, the Amazon seized him by the throat, and pushed him backwards with such force that he rolled over the counter. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. 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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