The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach.
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