” “I will wait,” said Ann Veronica, still not looking at him, “and we will go into Regent’s Park. Do you expect me, I wonder. 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. She ducked behind a pile of unused drywall. She had gained respect all about town with news of her fine marriage, and her reputation as a beauty was expanding. Lord, I am sixty.
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