They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. "Fire!—murder—thieves!—I've got one of 'em!" "Come along," cried Jack. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. In some things, in many things, you must trust to your elders, to those who know more of life than you do.
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