Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. Like stealing. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. ’ ‘Pottiswick, you mean, miss?’ ‘Yes, yes.
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