The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. I bent over him. “Muck-headed moral ass! I ought to have done anything. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. ” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. Wood was once a favourite of yours.
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