Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. “Now here hath been dawning another blue day; I’m just a poor woman, please take it away. " CHAPTER IX.
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