“You are neither of you in the least like the ordinary boarding-house young man. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. So the talk went on. And the age gets higher. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. “It was a phase,” she said. I can't concentrate on my work.
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