The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. Time after time he reminded her of how powerless she would be without him, how unkind the world was towards single women. "I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. “Your great success has been my joy, our joy as well as yours. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken.
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