Gerald at once lowered his voice to that intimate level again, and leaned towards her. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. " "I can't exactly say, Sir Rowland. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded.
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