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 tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. ’ ‘What about this Leonardo fellow?’ Hilary asked, still frowning heavily.
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