Then she took her sister’s hand. . ’ He grimaced. ’ Fire enveloped Charvill’s mind and he brought up his cane, pointed like a musket. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways.
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