“There are a good many Whites in London. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. ’ ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but I think as how you ought to go back to London,’ Jack ventured. He rose at once to his feet and turned a white face upon her. 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.
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