It was late before Jonathan ventured to his own house, where he remained up all night, and kept his janizaries and other assistants well armed. But he was always forcing her to say and do such unexpectedly conclusive things. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces.
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