’ The lashes fluttered demurely. "Old Morgan the trader," she explained, "used to save me Tit-Bits. Wood's house at Dollis Hill on Tuesday'—that's two days ago,—'hasn't been heard of since. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. 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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