She leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently. “So very clear and cold,” she said. Mac would have some new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. 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 flounced back to stare out of the window again.
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