"What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. Don't shake so. 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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