The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Whether the turnkey entertained any suspicion of the old man, Jack could not tell, but that night he was more than usually rigorous in his search; and having carefully examined the prisoners and finding nothing to excite his suspicions, he departed tolerably satisfied. She touched it, and her gaze lifted. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy.
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