“Everything was so strange-the stranger for its being night in the day-time, and the candles burning with a white flame, and looking raw and cold-that I read the words in the newspaper without knowing what they meant, and found myself reading the same words repeatedly. As it was of no use going on in that way, I put the paper down, took a peep at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and looked at the room which was not half lighted, and at the shabby dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full of the most inexpressive looking books that ever had anything to say for themselves. Then I went on, thinking, thinking, thinking; and the fire went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candles went on flickering and guttering, and there were no snuffers-until the young gentleman by-and-by brought a very dirty pair; for two hours.”
Bleak House. Page 43. Charles Dickens (1812-1870).