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. Mauled about!” She fell to rubbing her insulted lips savagely with the back of her hand. I don’t care. “He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. I wonder.
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