“To the best of my belief,” she said, with quiet dignity, “I have never seen either of you before in my life. Paris, romantizmle birlikte artık güzel kokan bir şehir haline geldi. 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. “Nor am I now,” he answered.
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