For an instant, Gerald wished the rest of the world away that he might go to her and administer appropriate comfort. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. 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. It doesn't look bad, does it?" "Mercy, no! That wasn't the thought.
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