‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. Abruptly the sterner look vanished and she twinkled. He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along.
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