When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. 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. This was the first young man who had drawn from her something more than speculative interest. I can't invent; the thing won't come.
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