On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying. He fixed it. "I'd rather you went over the last four chapters, which I haven't polished yet. 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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