A pretty name for a pretty girl. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. He had known she would be shocked, but he was equally certain Melusine would have refused to see her grandfather had she been forewarned.
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