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. It was difficult to get right. "Of course," responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh. The father, granite; the daughter, fire: Spurlock saw the one and heard the other, his amazement indescribable. ‘How much does he know?’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned narrowed eyes on Gerald.
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