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. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. He wisely refrained from questioning the manager of the Victoria. . Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword. Amidship there was also canvas, and like that over the wheel, drab and dirty.
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