Then for a time she sat very still. The afternoon had passed now into twilight. 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. And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt. Imbecile.
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