The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. She had not at first the power for concealment. “Mary! What’s going on! Why are you crying?!” He commanded an answer in a worried and slightly irritated tone. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour.
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