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. They seem to spend their time yawning and inspecting their neighbour’s dresses through those hateful glasses. Winifred, you are deceived in me. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her.
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