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They are their mother’s sons. “On or about the day you receive this letter, Anna, the six months will be up. 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 seems so unfair,” she said, “to take all you offer me and give so little in return. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. ‘What, is Nicholas dead?’ He saw the two of them exchange glances and an instinct of danger rose up.
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