The red glare fell upon the slimy brick-work, and tinged the inky waters below. 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. Wood, leaping from the bed. I’ve to collect my sword and hat, and then we must get back to London.
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