Spurling and Marvel rose too. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. 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. That is why I ask you. You may go back, Marthe.
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