“It is such a very respectable boarding-house,” she said. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Certain phases of irony always caused him to chuckle audibly. "Jonathan Wild and Blueskin have got him into their hands," continued Mrs. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. Aunt and niece regarded each other silently. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness.
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