" On leaving Mr. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. “A volatile temperament—yes, a volatile temperament,” Mr. They could not go on. 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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