But there was nothing in her bearing that a passer-by would have noted, to tell of the excitement that possessed her. She turned them down and gently placed the violin back in its red fake fur lined chamber. “Splendid you are looking to-day, Miss Stanley,” he said. 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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