“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. Still, the respite was sufficient for Spurlock to look about for some weapon. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces.
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