Before there is any change, any real change, I shall be dead—dead—dead and finished—two hundred years!. 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. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures.
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