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. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. She watched the people and hummed softly to herself.
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