She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. She could not bear the shame of it. Was he your natural father? Did you know him?” “No, I didn’t. 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. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged.
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