And you promised to tell me. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. 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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