” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. That paper must be signed, or I take my departure. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. But let that verse tell my secret. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She liked the animated eagerness of his manner.
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