Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. Efforts were made to staunch his wounds and surgical assistance sent for. He was asleep when Jonathan entered, and growled at being disturbed. 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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