"You are not. The end of the world seemed at hand. " When Spurlock had finished the tale, touched here and there by his own imagination, McClintock made a negative sign. She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. Prudence attacked her chicken wing. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit.
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