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. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. Moving to the shuttered window, Melusine dragged the heavy drapes back. He went to Harvard instead. He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures.
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