The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. " "On that night, you first met me, love," said Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to take his hand, which he coldly withdrew.
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