It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. I only arrived when everybody was coming away. "Oh! he'll be after you directly. His progress, however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of the Master of the Mint and his train.
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