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. He claimed me for his wife, and showed to every one a marriage certificate. “I believe it is. Thank him, not me, man. “Thank you—for coming,” he said. "Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?" "Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling.
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