The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Grudgingly he admired her. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. But one of these days everything will click back into place. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna.
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