I think she might be up to something. 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. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. I worshipped her and subdued myself. Husband of mine, I think we have rather overrated the emotional capacity of those—those dears.
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