All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. 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. ” “How absurd!” Annabel declared. There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. She could no longer wait.
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