The job is easy. Stanley pronounced, and seemed to hesitate whether he had not gone too far. She walked through the walls. 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. Stanley almost liked Ramage. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous.
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