He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance. 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. He had heard nothing. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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