‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. He has nothing to fall back upon, no substitute; but a woman always has the mother love. “My dear Anna,” he answered. Altogether, it was a hideous and revolting sight. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces.
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