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She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. These cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor. It contains news of the serious illness of a near relation at Paris. I do not understand why you and your sister should not see more of one another. Kneebone begged him to take the prisoner into the churchyard. Alors, one must steel oneself. I shall quit it and go abroad. Manning leaned forward on the table, talking discursively on the probable brilliance of their married life.

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