The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. My natural parents both died a very long time ago and I have been on my own for a great deal of my existence. I've some other things inside, Sir, which you might wish to buy,—some pistols. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. “Perhaps that is only sleeping,” he said.
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