“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. The man Hill has persecuted me for months—ever since I have been in England. Something seemed awry. “Think of what people will say!” That became a refrain. 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.
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