"What has happened?" asked Sister Prudence. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. The flat was apparently empty. Your mother arrived, and she knew me for what I was, she whispered to me curses against werewolves and vampires when I was alone in a room with her. 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. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission.
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