“Like a stab. " "Don't go near him, dear Thames," said Winifred; "he may have some ill intention. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. 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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