The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Though, to be fair, he did not know of it until after the wedding. When any violent outrage was committed,—and such matters were of daily, sometimes hourly, occurrence,—a bell, the rope of which descended into the hall, brought the whole of the turnkeys to their assistance. "Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand.
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