"A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. I am not comfortable,’ complained Madame Valade. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. It's of no use.
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