Submission to the inevitable carried her through the circumstances of her appearance before the magistrate. It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her. “I am sick of it. 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. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head. I tried.
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