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. Anna leaned back with half closed eyes. I told him the truth. Detached, it was not impossible that she would be forced to leave the dining room because of invading tears. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. She struggled fiercely not to give way. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. "'T is he!" he mentally ejaculated. \"Oh. ” Anna sat back in her cab, but found it remain stationary.
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