“I should like to understand you,” he said. The moviegoers exited the cinema in the customary daze that resulted from two hours of sensory bombardment. 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. You want industry—you want steadiness. He grunted, and his grip gave. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door.
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