How old are you?” She asked. She was the first to recover herself. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. 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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