Our ideal had fallen. She is no longer mine; she is yours. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She was the actress his whim had chosen to play a passive part. CHAPTER I. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. Frequently she would doze in her chair; but the slightest movement on the bed aroused her. Yes, yes, you do not like the French, and so this English lady here, she is altogether your flesh. I won’t try.
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