The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. " "How had he offended you?" inquired the widow. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. Also Lucy, who had been so much her friend. F. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife.
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