After dinner Ann Veronica went into the drawing-room with Miss Stanley, and her father went up to his den for his pipe and pensive petrography. As the movie reached its predictable apex, she clutched his right knee in a careful imitation of fear. 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. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. Oh God! pardon me.
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