In a voice husky with suppressed despair, she answered. Melusine choked on a laugh, and Gerald at once seized the initiative, speaking in a tone deliberately soothing. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. 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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