The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. I knew it was only a matter of time before the boys started paying attention to you, Lucy. Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands. I need a white man, if only to talk to; and it will be a god send to talk to someone of your intelligence.
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