What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. ‘Espèce de bête,’ she snarled. 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 did not occur to her that they at least had found a way of earning a living, and had that much economic superiority to herself.
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