It was at his side below the breast, hidden by the dark colour of his close-fitting jacket. 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. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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