You would not have the slightest difficulty. The lantern was on the ground inside, ready. "What did the old fellow judge from, eh, Joan?" asked he. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. 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 drew her close up to him with a strong, steady pull. She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep.
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