For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. "I vent to de New Prish'n, and on wishitin' his shel vid de turnkey, vot should ve find but de shains on de ground, de vinder broken, and Jack and Agevorth Besh gone. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces.
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