"Oh! nothin' partickler—mere curossity," replied Terence. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. It has been a marvellous day—and I am going to England.
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