I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. They are all at prayer at this hour. “After all, why should he be surprised?” she remarked. 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.
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