” “Who cooked it all?” He asked. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. I am not prying for my own amusement. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger.
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