"How shall I get to you?" "My yacht is in the river. The air became hot and swollen with June humidity. It was so hopeless to put it to them. At least that, I think, is what makes a clever woman’s independent career so much more difficult than a clever man’s. “I do,” he answered. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. Lucia confined herself to her quarters, wondering when they would flee to the country as so many other houses had done.
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