This key," he added, taking it from the boy, "was purloined from me by your father, Jack. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp.
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