” “I’m afraid it can’t. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. “I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. 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. He remained listening attentively.
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