She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. About halfway across this interval, when everything seemed going well, Capes had a shock. ‘It is in truth you?’ ‘Of course it is I.
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