For so far she had kept it uncashed. 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. ” Michelle looked at her more inquisitively. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. She was the High Priestess.
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