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. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic. "You can, of course, identify this picture as Lady Trafford's property?" pursued Jonathan, with a meaning glance, as he handed it to the knight. Wild's dwelling without apprehension, or quitted it without satisfaction. "I am quite easy now; receive my blessing, my dear son; and if we never meet again, rest assured my last prayer shall be for you.
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