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. “She was the High Priestess who turned me in Greece, before Rome. But she was disturbed, mysteriously disturbed. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. ‘And this is where you have been all the time?’ ‘I would have been back in a day, I promise you. But she must not laugh. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. I had no idea she could go so fast. “I am bored,” she said abruptly.
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