Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. He was heartily thankful for it. Neither you nor your mother shall escape me. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. “You’re just a boy! You grow moody and spellbound, John, and the next moment you are ecstatic.
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