“So, how’d it go?” Lucy sighed. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. 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. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice.
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