The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. The delight of the turnkeys was beyond all bounds; but poor Mrs. That’s where you go wrong.
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