The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. They embarked upon an open and declared friendship. “I’ll get dressed. This light did not remain stationary, but could be seen at one moment glimmering through the rents in the roof, and at another shining through the cracks in the wall, or the broken panes of the casement. They set about everyone—everyone. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. E.
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