Master, your humble servant. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. Selling out of the Army to take up his inheritance had spelled boredom to Gerald Alderley. "Your answer!" cried Sheppard. You shall behold him. 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.
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