The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. After all, they’re history in the making. “I want to be your friend,” he said. There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. Were I to let you go, you'd say I feared you.
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