Then she turned, and entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Do not disquiet yourself. Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. “It’s a matter of feeling with me. ‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice. Nothing stronger than water has passed my lips for years.
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