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. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking. It dropped sideways and fell with a bang to the table. “Young lady! Are you sure you’re of legal age to be smoking those cigarettes?” “No, I’m not of legal age. I got a rusty bolt cutter. He tried this sentence with expletives. "Hear me!" cried Thames, bursting into tears. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQxLjIxLjEwOCAtIDE5LTA2LTIwMjQgMjI6MzA6MDkgLSAxODkyOTI4Njk3
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