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. They were loath to admit to the public that the case would be closed in a few years for sheer lack of forensic evidence. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. She described it so vividly. The reward is mine.
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