"You have killed him," cried Winifred in alarm. They did not speak until he had driven past town limits and were on the highway. 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. When he begins to notice things, I want you to trap his interest, to amuse him, keep his thoughts from reverting to his misfortunes.
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