The little spot of rouge was vivid enough now by reason of this new pallor, which seemed to draw the colour even from her lips. 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. Admire her as much as you choose—at a distance. There was, it might be said, a double illumination.
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