The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. Had he not said so? Not that she wished him to marry her. He pressed the bloody wrist into her mouth, and she though she could not feel it or 72 control it, she knew she was being made to swallow.
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