While they were thus occupied, a maid-servant entered the room, and stated that a person was without who had a packet for Captain Darrell, which must be delivered into his own hands. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. 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. “He does not come here,” she exclaimed, quickly. We’ll go to the shops.
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