“I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly. "To be sure I will, my child. So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear—"Mother!" She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son's outstretched arms. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Burn your palette and your easel.
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