She was in deadly earnest in everything she did. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. 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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