The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. Everything was blurred. ” “Never,” he exclaimed vehemently. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. Their future would be glorious; he saw it in their eyes; he saw it in the beauty of their young heads. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so.
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