"No, I tell you," rejoined Jonathan, shouldering his way out of the crowd. Nor was this impression removed as he stole a glance at Mrs. ‘I only wish I might have won her confidence. 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 is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated.
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