It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. 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. She kept trying to shut her legs, to stop the baby from coming out. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly.
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