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He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. “I cannot say who he is,” said Ann Veronica, “but he is a married man. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. I'm not interested in him. 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. ’ A sudden clatter of booted feet sounded in the hall beyond. They are not your flowers.
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