It was now a quarter past twelve. Stanley. ‘Now then, girl. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. 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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