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. ‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion. ‘I assure you it was mutual. We have that gift. “Martin, you realize that I’m dating someone, don’t you?” She knew his reply before he uttered it.
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