The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. "I had a terrible dream last night. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. And Mother trusted him. \" She whispered back. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her.
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