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Updated: June 20, 2025
"I thought not," says I, "you haven't the looks of a baker." "No," says he, "I'm a glove-cleaner." 'I never was more astonished in my life, than when I heard them words come out of his lips. "You're a glove-cleaner, are you?" says I. "Yes," he says, "I am." "Then, perhaps," says I, taking the gloves out of my pocket, "you can tell me who cleaned this pair of gloves? It's a rum story," I says.
M. Nioche lives in the same house, up six pair of stairs, across the court, in and out of whose ill-swept doorway Miss Noemie has been flitting for the last five years. The little glove-cleaner was an old acquaintance; she used to be the friend of a friend of mine, who has married and dropped such friends. I often saw her in his society.
Apparently her ideal has been satisfied. It is fifty years old, bald-headed, and deaf, but it is very easy about money." "And where in the world," asked Newman, "did you pick up this valuable information?" "In conversation. Remember my frivolous habits. In conversation with a young woman engaged in the humble trade of glove-cleaner, who keeps a small shop in the Rue St. Roch.
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