Shouldn't you be getting home?\" \"It's not far. She wanted to turn him. Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions. ‘What a fate he finds for me. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided.
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