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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. Mr. "Hear me," he cried, restraining himself with difficulty. There are pretty much three types, those that accept, and those who run away, and those who fight. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. "No!" she cried. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. .
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