The crowning aspect of the incident, for her mind, was the discovery that he and her indiscretion with him no longer mattered very much. Its parents have perished. Above all, beware of Sir Rowland Trenchard. 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. Everything was going to hell.
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