It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. He might not condone it, but the feelings that had prompted it augured well for Melusine’s safety. 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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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 18-09-2024 23:06:41
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