Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. ’ Hilary stared at him. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. It had gone with the rest. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces.
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