Luckily, Sir James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and gesture escaped him. Earles scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. 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. “I think—we all think that she is wonderful.
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