The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. This child was frequently disconcerting. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. Charcoal. She flew to the door, but returned the next minute, looking deeply disappointed, and bringing the intelligence that it was "only Mrs. ‘Don’t concern yourself. I see that compromise is more necessary to life than I ignorantly supposed it to be, and I have been trying to get Lord Morley’s book on that subject, but it does not appear to be available in the prison library, and the chaplain seems to regard him as an undesirable writer.
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