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 wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. “Until a girl can go away as a son does and earn her independent income, she’s still on a string. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes.
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