196 Succeeded where she had not. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Jack instantly sprang to his feet, and as his guards construed the motion into an attempt to escape, several of them drew their swords and motioned to him to sit down. Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent.
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