The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Shari was snoring, the pill having worked its magic. She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes.
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