She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. 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. "I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter.
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