The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. ‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. “You are coming right out into life—facing it all. "I shall like to call you that. "What the devil makes you out so late? And what has happened to you, man, eh?—you seem in a queer plight.
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